Phantoms zip by
quieter than owls’ wings
quicker than flickers of shadow
against the dawn.
Catching the morning light
dust motes circle above the hay
on air currents disturbed
by invisible guests.
Discarded feathers and bits of eggshell
resting on the old concrete floor
beneath a beam are a clue.
The goats and I are not alone.
Barn swallows have returned.
