A partially fledged barn swallow chick fell out of its nest in my barn in early July. I found it stuck to some nylon carpeting, its minute claws embedded in the unyielding fibers.
Disentangled and examined, it appeared to be alert and undamaged, so I settled it in a strawberry box and put it on a high beam for its parents to find. Within minutes it had clambered out of the box and was back on the barn floor – a bad decision that it repeated immediately, so I gave up and retreated to see what happened next, while addressing the question of pronouns.
The chick had a feisty and determined air, which I chose to think of as female, so I went with she/her, safe in the knowledge that at that age, swallow chicks all look the same anyway.
It was hard to tell whether the anxious swallow parents had noticed the baby on the floor but as panic levels subsided, things were looking good. By evening, they were swooping down to the chick and I decided that my help was not needed.
The next morning, she had installed herself inside an upturned milk crate and appeared to have come through the night in good order. From a discreet observation post, I watched the parents squeeze through the bars of the crate to deliver beak-fulls of insects to their gaping child.
Two days later, she graduated from her crate to a perch on an old window frame and the next day she was gone. I did not see her leave, but swallow flight school was in session in the yard and I hoped she had joined the class of fledglings from neighboring nests.
I have admired swallows since my childhood in England, where squadrons of them nested in our stables and sheds. I love their chatty company and am honored that they choose to raise their families in my barn.
When I bought the barn decades ago, it had as many as ten nests, a number that dwindled to one just two years ago. This summer, to my delight, I have five nesting pairs. However, there is a downside – more swallows means more swallow poop. My open barn is my summer living room, and I have to deal with the build-up of guano on tables and chairs. I positioned sheets of cardboard in the drop zones under their nests, but they poop wherever they perch, and they perch just about everywhere.
By odd coincidence, my sister in England sent me photos of the one swallow nest in her stables, with an account of the chick she found and returned to its nest. Their presence is an even greater cause for celebration in England, as numbers have declined faster there than in the United States.
England is now one of the most wildlife-depleted countries in the world – the predictable result of unsustainable farming, manicured gardens and – for swallows – the relentless conversion of farm buildings to Airbnb goldmines.
The statistics are heartbreaking. The United Kingdom’s Red List of Birds of Conservation Concern grew from 36 species in 1996 to 70 by 2021. Sadly, this trend seems to be barely making a dent in the farming and gardening world in England.
From my perspective here in Maine, where the appreciation of environmentally friendly practices has taken a strong hold, England is lagging far behind. The move to create wildlife-friendly gardens, or to change farming practices, is still a novel concept – despite the fashion for ‘rewilding’ that has taken the fancy of some large landowners.
So as I navigate the fresh poop under a new swallow nest or survey the jungle I call my garden, I vow, again, to share my tiny corner of the planet as freely as I can with the creatures to whom the space most truly belongs.
