Swallow in flight with cursive quote

The swallow came back to the pump house the week the road crew stopped answering the phone. It built its mud cup above the hose reel, where the cracked forecourt tiles give way to sand, and every morning it went out over the Sallow Wash road low and fast, taking flies off the tarmac as if it had money riding on it.

Mr Okafor from the depot drove out Tuesday with the grader and wanted to know why I hadn't shifted the nest. I told him the bird had paid more rent than the council. He laughed, then looked up at the ridge, where the dust had been standing brown for three days. He reckons the road will be shut by the weekend. I haven't told Dad. He's in the back room with the radio, counting the stations that come in clear, the way he used to count tyres.

I found the old visitors' book under the till. On the last page someone had written the line about time and passing in pencil, and beneath it, in biro, a swallow with a forked tail was diving the same way ours does. The handwriting is Mum's. I never knew she drew. I suppose a road like this gets people leaving things behind for whoever comes next.

This morning the cup was empty. The pair had gone south in the night, the way they do, and the hose reel was just a hose reel again. I pressed the last of the mud off the rim with my thumb and kept it in the biscuit tin with your birthday cards. Come on the bus when the road opens. Bring the tin back when you go, and tell Dad the flies are all his now.

Love, Jo