I’ve visited the last baby swallows in the next today; each time I see him, he is edging out more and more to the front of the next, and tonight or tomorrow, he’ll leap and just try to fly. No one – no parent or anyone – will be present to help him; he’s on his own.

He and I have an understanding; when I come into the barn, he starts a staredown to see who blinks first. Usually, I do.

I’ve gotten used to him, and I think he’s called used to me. So has his mother; she doesn’t buzz-bomb me anymore when I come by to see her offspring.

“Don’t land on the barn floor,” I said, “you don’t want a donkey or a sheep to step on you.” He watches me intently, I think he’s listening to what I say, but this is just a mere projection.

He doesn’t seem nervous or impressed and has a toughness about him. (listen to me anthropomorphize). I continue to be impressed by that next; the adult swallows did an excellent job of putting that together with straw and mud.

Good luck, swallow, and go find your brothers and sisters. They will show you the ropes. It’s going to be a big day.