A Swallow's Tale
The city still groaned through winter.
Pipes burst beneath the streets, leaving potholes deep enough to swallow headlights whole. People hurried past one another with tired eyes, chasing noise, chasing glitter, chasing things that never seemed to last.
Even the birds seemed to feel it.
One swallow clipped its wing against mirrored glass it never saw coming. For a while it lost the glide entirely, drifting low between storms and telephone wires while thunder rolled somewhere beyond the harbor.
And yet the old words of Christ remained:
Look at the birds of the field.
They do not carry gold in little treasure chests. They do not build kingdoms from fever and vanity. Still, the Lord watches them. Still, they rise into the morning wind.
Maybe that is why people matter too.
Not because we are perfect.
Not because we are powerful.
But because God, in His mercy, sees us through the storm the same way He sees the swallow crossing the rain.
The world presses hard.
It always has.
But somewhere beyond the noise and lightning, beyond all the glitter people mistake for treasure, there is still a well—always full, never running dry.
The glide is restored.
