In late summer I checked the outbuildings at Einar for Swallows. Many of the nests were empty. This one wasn’t. It must be a second brood. Could it be a third?
There are enough flies here.
It’s such a cramped existence as a baby Barn Swallow. There appear to be four in there. I was tempted to ask for caption suggestions, but surely the only sensible suggestion is, “Get your bum out ma face!”
Swallows were still flying on Westray on 8 October this year. That’s incredibly late and a tiny reflection of global heating. Here’s one of my favourite poems by Edwin Muir, The Late Swallow:
There’s an hour to spare in between errands and work so I decide to see if I can get some flying shots of Swallows. I did.
And they’re as crisp as crisp can be.
Safe journey my friends. See you next year.