I am sitting in my living room looking out the window at my swallows.  I love those little birds.  They're darting this way and that, swooping, diving, circling, seemingly just for the fun of it.  They're quick.  They change directions in an instant.  They look happy, and I'm sure they are.  They may look like they're doing these aerobatics for sport, but they're actually hard at work.  They're sweeping the air clean of mosquitoes and flying insects.

I never, ever see a single flying insect out there; but those quick little birds, while flying 30 miles per hour, are able to spot an insect, make a quick course adjustment, catch the bugs in their beaks, swallow, change course, and catch another mosquito a second later.

How can they react so quickly?  I can't even see the bugs.  Even if I could, I couldn't react that quickly.  I might make a swat at the bug, but I'd miss, and I certainly wouldn't be able to catch it in my little beak.

I admire people and things that are quick.  I admire quick because I'm not.  I can't come up with clever things to say, like my grandson, Caleb.  I can't come up with things to say at all, unless I have time to think about it first.

Caleb's sister disgustedly said, “Caleb, why can't you cut the bread straight?”

His response?—“Kiley, my bread cutting is unparalleled.”

As Caleb's father was teaching him to drive, Caleb was descending Dooley Mountain.  Adam asked him, “What does that sign mean?”

Caleb answered, “It means to watch out for trucks on giant cheese wedges.”

I have to know what I'm going to say, and rehearse it, before I open my mouth.  I can't talk extemporaneously and sound intelligent like some people.  I'm not quick physically, either.  In fact, I can't even run any more.  My grandson, Nolan, was in his first-ever relay race last week.  No one knew how fast he could run, probably including himself.  The coach made him the second leg of the 4-leg relay.  When he received the baton from his team mate, their team was in last place.  By the time Nolan had circled the track and handed the baton to the next runner, he was 70 yards ahead of his nearest competitor.  That's quick!

Last year (2022) I watched the first Kentucky Derby that I've ever seen.  Talk about exciting!  I watched it because of Rich Strike.  Rich Strike was the headline of every national newscast.  Twenty horses were entered in the race.  Rich Strike was number 21.  He only got to compete because one of the 20 horses that qualified was scratched at the last minute.

Rich Strike was late getting to the starting position.  He hesitated on the takeoff, and was in very last place at the start.

(This is a fun race to bring up on the Internet, and to watch over and over.  Find one that shows an overhead view with an arrow that helps you keep track of where Rich Strike is.)

Rich Strike began passing horse after horse.  He fairly flowed between them.  He was fast!  He obviously wanted to be out front, and in the lead.  In the final stretch there were only the two favorites ahead of him—and he passed them.  That underdog, last-to-qualify horse won the Kentucky Derby!

I'm reminded of one of Danny's track meets.  My heart sank right at the start of the race because Danny was in last place.  It was like he was hesitating, which he was.  He was purposely putting himself in last place.  Why would he do that?  Then he started running.  He passed runner after runner after runner until he'd passed the lead man, and won the race.  He was a human Rich Strike.

While you're looking for the video of Rich Strike's Kentucky Derby, also type in the name of Kenneth Rooks, and find his video.  He was a BYU runner who fell in a steeplechase race, got up, was in last place, kept running, and won the race.

I admire quick things and people like Kenneth Rooks, Rich Strike, Danny, Nolan, Caleb, and swallows.  It would be satisfying and fun to be like them.