It’s the dinner hour of early evening
and swallows do aerial maneuvers:
they skim above an empty baseball field’s 
fresh-cut grass in eager pursuit of insects,

darting every direction, changing course
at impossible angles with such
acceleration it baffles the mind
how their little bodies can handle it.

My toddler raises his hand in greeting
whenever they pass by us close enough
to catch his rapt attention, then he runs
as fast as his short legs will carry him:
          over the field, toward the low-slung sun,
          giggling with delight at each quick step.