At the beginning of September everything changed. It was exactly as if the sky had an inside. Early one morning the blue burst and released a wind mixed with an icy downpour.
It was perfect weather for vodka. The house shook from the gusts, the roof trusses creaked like the hull of a sailing ship. We rocked to and fro, it took great effort not to spill even a drop from the tiny brimming glass. We drank to the cold and to the wind.
From the north came drops of rain like drab threads; they vanished somewhere to the south without touching the ground at all. In this dull-colored blizzard all shapes disappeared. The woods and the river could be told by the increasing roar. But it was quite possible they’d both been swept away and were hurtling somewhere across the world, tangled in a ball.
“Like it was let off its leash,” said Wieś. He probably meant the air.
The next day the swallows appeared. They were always there and so we paid no attention to them. But their numbers . . . Two, three, ten times as many as usual. They flew ponderously just above the ground, like they were trying to avoid the wind, to escape from it, hide. Some of them hung beneath the eaves, their claws latched to the wall. That was the only dry place.
The following morning we found their dead bodies. They weighed next to nothing. It was then we understood how much strength a bundle of feathers like that has to have to ride out a gale.
The rain didn’t ease up even for a moment.
In the afternoon we cracked open a window. Five swallows flew into the house. They settled on the stove, close to the ceiling. We were able to take them in the palms of our hands. They made no attempt to fly away. The tiny drumbeat of their hearts was unimaginably fast.
The next morning was sunny. We let the birds out. We gathered the dead bodies scattered around the outside of the house. When the fire was going, we put them gently into the stove.