Dipping out from the cloud-covered sky,the Tree Swallow returns to nest, surrounded by a thousand of its kind,the sultry summer air brushes off its glossy, blue topaz back.  Like an arrow from the quiver,it plunges down from its nest hole, almost meeting its pure-white breast to the bourn near which it lingers, and landing with an sharp song, ephemeral and dynamic.  Dark, crooked wings and split plume stretching past the body define, a bird of stature, proud, and conduct, cold.