Andrew Auclair ’29

by Andrew Auclair ’29 on September 25, 2025

The young swallows fly
like black ashes in the sky.
Take no time for rest,
for the skies they must infest.
The birds fly into the evening.

Dark clouds of dots dance
on the horizon, they romance.
The red sky retires,
the night put out the fire.
Of swallows I was dreaming.