Lois Beebe Hayna He says swallows circled over them. She remembers no sound of wings. Only of water harsh with autumn. Sometimes now birds–cries shrill through dream–converse and she wakes awed by a strange sense of flight, just as he says he must have imagined the swallows. He speaks of an apple tree bee-loud with blossom. She insists the tree stood bare, the harvest long past. Yet, in odd moments she catches the scent of flowering. He...