The swallows return to our homeplace every year. Their arrival fills me with so much joy that I cry. I know that they will keep us company in the garden all summer. Ours nest in the very high apse of the shed roof. They swoop low to fly in the door and then rise high into their nest. A couple of summers ago we were watching for the fledglings and found two of them on the shed floor. I knew enough to know that this wasn’t good – swallows never land on the ground, everything is done on the wing.
My agile eldest son climbed a ladder and popped the two baby swallows back in the nest. Before long, one was out again on the cold concrete floor. Once again, my son climbed the ladder. This was repeated a few times in the day until we had to go out for a few hours. On our return, the baby swallow was lying cold and dead on the shed floor.
This little creature weighed almost nothing and we all took a turn at holding him tenderly before finding him a final resting place. There is a grave where we once buried the tiniest little person who we longed to come to us and the swallow went into the earth right beside this grave.
We figured out that the parent swallows were making their own decisions and lobbing this little one out of the nest as they had two other chicks to raise. Nature is cruel and resilient and with the journey of thousands of kilometres these birds have to make in the autumn, they know best about the chances of fledglings. Still we all grieved the little one who wouldn’t get the chance to spread his wings.
The same summer at my parent’s house the house martins who nest just below the roof, taking shelter under the tiles were having their own hard time with predators.
There are times when these small griefs in the natural world take on a heavy significance. They feel like arbiters of what is to come, of how we are hurting the planet and how hard it is for the wild creatures to thrive.
But there are so many times when despite the setbacks, nature finds a way. It always makes me feel hopeful that we can too.
The broken pieces lay on the ground; most of the nest still intact.
A single feather amid the destruction.
What cruelty brought it down?
And then the culprit – sleek, black and white thief
One for sorrow as the saying goes.
The homeless house martins spotted him and swooped
Helpers arrived and soon he was the target
No matter – a home still lay in pieces
It’s inhabitants flapped at an overhanging eave where their intricate home once belonged
I felt helpless, could only watch
But the martins didn’t drop their heads like I did
They swooped as if to say we will rebuild
And I was reminded of Emily Dickinson’s words that hope is a thing with feathers.