A Secret
I watched a woman standing a few feet down, hands like two dead fish curled over the wooden fence. Everyone else was watching the Chapman School, even her—eyes narrowed on the black bricks of the chimney. We were all waiting for the swifts to come down, all waiting, strangers, waiting together for the swifts to come down. Everyone smiled as they waited, but not the woman. She looked agitated. Her eyes never left the black bricks of the chimney—they would blink, but more like the eyes of a lizard, quick and slippery, never missing a second. We waited, smiling, having fun, but I could see the woman was terrified. It was quite some secret she was holding onto, I decided. Something she wanted to confess, but couldn't—some darkness in her—some darkness that I crawled down into, that I shimmied down into, down until I couldn't see a thing. I felt around for a secret, but only came up with handfuls of cold, damp air. What we hide is like that, like the air on a pier at night or the air in the pit of a cave. I felt around some more until I heard things stirring. It was just in my own head, at first, then I heard it all around me, and suddenly I wanted out. A cheeping and scratching started down there with me, and everyone was smiling and awing. I didn't want to watch anymore. I looked away but only saw the woman's hands, pale like dead fish, and when I looked at her face she turned and looked at me. Then I heard it, just like a secret sounds—wings flapping, striking the bricks until a cloud of swifts tore into the chimney, beating at the brick. And you couldn't help but look, really. They poured in, thousands, knotted in one dark cloud. They filled the sky, so we couldn't see a thing. Then they were gone.
