I'm going to blame it on the smoke, but in reality the smoke lifted early last evening, around the same time the rain that was supposed to fall didn't.
I was choked up as I removed the nest this morning. I won't admit to having tears in my eyes, and if you had caught me I would have admitted to no more than smoke and allergies. Men don't cry over the most crushing of events. We certainly don't cry over the death of a baby bird. Allergies, you know.
This spring a pair of barn swallows began spending time around the house, perching on the rope light above the deck, outside the kitchen window. My wife first, and then me, would chatter at them, try to imitate their language, through the window. When we sat on the deck we would talk our version of swallow as they flew by, and pretty soon they became comfortable, and would join us while we were sipping wine or having morning coffee. Them, perched on the rope lights, just out of the reach of the weird apes, and us down below, off to the side enough that our wine was safe from falling 'objects'.
In July, after the swallows first batch had flown the nest, the couple decided to leave the ancestral home to the kids, and build a new nest on the floodlight, under the soffit several feet east of the deck. We watched these two drag mud, and sticks, and to our amazement, bit by bit, this magnificent bird structure arose on our flood light.
"You know we can't turn that light on, ever again."
My wife is the sensible one, and had a plan.
"I'll put a sticky note on the switch."
During the month of July we watched the courtship, the nesting, the hatching, and eventually we glimpsed the tiny heads of three barn swallow babies. Were we as proud of the new arrivals as the parents? You bet we were!
Then one morning my wife cried out in anguish. One of the babies had fallen and it was dead on the concrete below. I tried to console her with my nature and survival of the fittest speech, but she saw through my bullshit. I hope that she also saw that I was sad as well.
A few days later the tragedy repeated itself. A second baby had fallen to its death. Well, there was no way my wife was listening to my "let nature take it's course" speech this time. She piled blankets, and cardboard boxes under the nest, building a stunt man pad in case the third one fell. If I hadn't been around to stop her I'm sure she would have pulled the mattress off our bed, and we would have slept on the floor.
Everything went well from that point. We noticed that the remaining baby was getting feathers, and coming to the edge of the nest, flapping it's wings, getting ready to fly. We thought it was going to make it. And then, I think it was Tuesday, we noticed a set of tail feathers hanging out of the nest, not moving at all. The third baby had passed in the nest overnight.
We watched the parents try to wake it, to feed it. to nudge it back to life. Then we watched them resign themselves to sitting on the rope light over the deck, before they both faded away.
I wanted to leave the nest on the floodlight, so the parents would know that they were always welcome to come back and try again next year. Unfortunately I couldn't remove the baby without destroying the nest, so I took the remnants down. I did tell you allergies caused the wetness in my eyes, right?
What really hurts is that there is a chance that my actions killed the third baby.
I did a barrel burn on Monday morning, burning some papers and such. I noticed that some of the smoke was drifting under the eaves, but it didn't seem to be a lot. After the burn we both noticed life in the baby, in fact we saw excitement when a flock of barn swallows flew by, enticing all to join the migration to South America. But in the morning it was dead. I can't stop thinking that something in the smoke made the little bird sick and die. My fault. I should have stopped the burn.
All of my "natures course" speeches to myself do not erase the nagging guilt that I feel. Guilt about something that may or may not have been my fault. But life goes on. I hope the parents make it back to Canada next year. I hope they remember us, and spend their spare time crapping on our deck, I hope nobody will see my allergies of happiness when they return.
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