Once I found a flooded hayfield where swallows had flocked. At least fifty birds drifted above the field, buoyed up by gusts of heavy wind. The birds hung over the field like kites anchored by an invisible thread, not moving, only hovering, wings extended and altogether motionless. One would shift its tail, adjust the spread of fine primaries, but that was all. Birds hanging in unison against the wind.
Christina Stump is a recent graduate of Bowling Green State University’s MFA program. She writes about nature and place-making, especially through the lens of speculative fiction and creative nonfiction. When not writing, Christina can be found in Ohio’s wetlands and forests, looking (and listening) for her nemesis: the Swainson’s Warbler.
Flash Glass: A MONTHLY PUBLICATION OF FLASH FICTION, PROSE POETRY, & MICRO ESSAYS