“I don’t know if you know this, but somebody else is already living in your house,” our builder said to us.
Eyebrows raised quizzically, I looked at him.
“The barn swallows,” he said, gesturing to the shimmering orange and blue streaks in the air. “They built a nest overnight!”
And sure enough, there is a little mud-daubed cup near the ceiling in the living room of the new farmhouse. It is not lost on me that they are building a home to safely raise their children in the same place we are building one to raise our own. As different as we are, our goals are essentially the same. Our dreams not that dissimilar.
Still, I know the nest will have to go soon. Before the swallows lay their eggs, before the windows are installed and the ways in and out are closed to them, I will have to climb up and carefully pry it from the wall. It’s the kindest thing I can do. But, for a little while longer anyway, I will stand transfixed and watch the pair dip and swoop through the empty rooms and the unfinished walls.
Energy and graceful half moons in the air; little prayers of hope on the wing.