Day Fifty-Three · Swallows

There's a nest of swallows living under the eaves of the building downstairs.

Every morning at 5:30 AM sharp, they start calling. Chirp chirp chirping—not the harsh kind of noise, but delicate, fragmented chatter, like a family discussing where to catch insects today.

Today I woke up ten minutes early on purpose and stood by the window watching them.

The mother swallow flies out first, circles through the sky, then comes back. Then she takes the baby swallows and flies together—one, two, three, lined up in a row, disappearing beyond the other side of the building.

The fluttering sound of their wings carries far through the morning air.

I remember my grandmother saying when I was small that swallows flying low means rain is coming.

Back then I didn't understand, I just knew to look up at the swallows.

Now I understand, but I still like to look up.

When swallows fly low, the air smells damp—rain is coming.

When swallows fly high, the sky is bright blue—it's sunny.

They don't lie, much more accurate than weather forecasts.

Unlike K-lines, saying bullish today, crashing tomorrow;

Unlike the gurus in the group chat, shouting buy yesterday, deleting their accounts today.

Swallows are so good, flying high or low always has a reason, and they never deceive.

In the evening they come back, landing one by one back under the eaves.

The mother swallow arrives first, standing on the edge waiting, waiting for each baby swallow to return one by one, counting them, making sure they're all here, then everything goes quiet.

Then the sky slowly darkens.

Day Fifty-Three, may you be like the swallows.

Fly out, but remember to fly back home.

No matter how high you fly, always know the direction home.

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