The Poop, the Window and the Goodbye.
From tiny tufts of feathers, all so small, they would peek and perch on the drainpipe. Honestly, I believe they found a way to build their nest in the attic, up there where I never go. They settled gradually, and every now and then, I would see them being fed. Over time, they grew and learned to soar. The ever-changing weather of the island seems to be the perfect flight simulator, with challenging conditions for survival and flight, as well as the toughest conditions for migration: far from the cold, far from the winds, far from the island that witnessed their birth and nurtured them.
From glorious days of sun where butterflies and bumblebees dance from flower to flower, when the fields are painted with lilac and yellow flowers, when the sweet scent of coconut released by the gorse flowers fills the warm breeze to those when it’s best to ask forgiveness for your sins because it seems like the sky will fall upon you with divine rage, oh dear! May God keep us in His blessed hand… but nothing happens; it’s just the way the winds pay us a visit.
Since I had grown accustomed to the commotion of these birds, undoubtedly, their presence brings me tranquility. Tranquility? Yes, because I know that while they are around here, there’s a trace of hope, a small and innocent assurance that the weather will be kind, that the days won’t be short, that we’ll have some hours of light, and, above all, that I don’t need to search for my winter clothes.
But out of nowhere, this morning, making coffee… they’re not there. They’ve gone…
No more flutter, no more uproar, no more swallows. The change is imminent, it’s felt in the wind, in the daylight hours. Even the trees no longer shine with that distinctive emerald green; at the treetop, the color begins to fade with the sunbeams that keep moving farther away. Now it has a yellowish hue, announcing the arrival of autumn.
The scents change, the days get shorter, the winds come with the freshness of autumn; summer bids farewell with the tick-tock of the clock, summer leaves.
They’ve gone, and all that remains of those sunny days is the poop on the window. Until next time, swallows.
Naughty flying visitors!
Last modified on 2023-09-09