When winter is over
And spring has pushed up green
From the sleeping ground,
The swallows come back.
One morning they're there again;
Little black streamers with forked tails,
Trapeze artists, zigzagging from wire to wire,
Whizzing over our heads.
They fly all the way from Africa-
Thousands and thousands of miles-
And return to the very same street
They left at the end of autumn.
Each one of them
Weighs less than the smallest coin.