Runway for Swallows

At the edge of town, the runway keeps its long gray breath, heat once rose there in hard waves of kerosene. Now milkweed leans through old painted numbers, and swallows stitch the air where departures used to bloom.

Control tower windows hold a weather of dust, sunlight pools in them like pale cider. A fox crosses the tarmac at noon, its shadow thin as a boarding pass.

In the hangars, rain drums on aluminum ribs, echoes of engines loosen into thunder and seed. Grass lifts between cracks, green tongues of patience, while dandelions light their tiny signal fires.

By evening, the wind reads every rusted sign aloud. No city names, no gates, no final calls. Only the field, widening into star-salt dark, and wings choosing their own directions.