This summer I was in Spain. The window of my hotel room looked out over a narrow backstreet that swallows used as a kind of race track. They dived and danced through the street in continuously altering formations. Most of the day the street was in the shade and you could hardly make them out, but at midday, when the sun was at its highest, for ten minutes the street lit up and the swallows drew their shades across the tarmac, sharp like knifes.
I tried to capture them in flight, but almost always failed. Too late, phone empty, memory full. In the meantime I caught other things: people, a car, shades. Songwriting sometimes flows along the same lines. It’ s like you try to catch something that is fleeting, or try to tie something down that is fluid, and then suddenly something else pops up. I couldn’t find a chorus to this song - or actually anything other than the first verse. In trying to finish it I wrote about half a dozen other songs, now all nearing completion. They are my wandering men, I try to keep on being their wayward girl. And in the end, I did catch that one swallow, briefly.