A Couple of Swallows

Being called a bird-brain is a great compliment. Imagine the tiny head of a swallow containing a brain that can navigate continents and oceans, build a nest of mud and saliva so strong that it can be used over and over. A marvellous micro-chip that is as quick as its flight, turning and twisting, dipping and darting. It turns fighter pilots green with envy.

Many years ago, a little boy brought me a swallow with a broken wing.  As I held the delicate bird weighing only a gram or two (okay, maybe three), it seemed that it would not live long. The little heart raced and the tiny black eyes were fixed on my face. How could something so fragile survive the trauma and if it did, what would life be like for a non-flying swallow.

I rang a bird rescue centre close-by and was told to bring the bird in the next day. They would be able to tell me if the wing could be fixed.

This was not my first encounter with a swallow. Previously, I’d heard a woman screaming in the motel unit beside mine. A swallow was flying about her room and she was trying to bat it with a broom. It was terrified and exhausted so I caught it gently in the curtain and then held it in one hand with the other covering it so that it was in a dark warm place. Birds tend to drop off to sleep at once in a dark place. After a short while, I opened my hand and it looked up at me curiously. As I was outside, I  flattened my palm so that it could take off. For some time it lay there and then when I gave a small encouraging flip of my hand, it finally soared off and disappeared from view.

This new one would need full time care. It would also require regular feeding to keep it from dying of hunger – small birds have amazingly fast metabolisms so need to eat constantly – and be kept warm and quiet.

First – the dark and warm box.  Then, armed with a fly swatter, off to search for flies and other insects to feed my voracious little friend.

I fed the flies on tweezers and was delighted to see that it took them readily.

Back to the box for the swallow and back to swatting flies for me. The second time, I held out my finger and the little bird climbed onto it with its short, cotton-thin legs invisible beneath the downy tummy feathers. Its tiny claws were equally delicate filaments. This time it took its feed even more enthusiastically.

Rather than put it back into the box, I lay down and put it on my chest where it sat quietly for some time and watched me trying to read my book. As soon as it began to stir, the feeding was repeated. I did this several times before dusk when I was able to consign it to the box for the night.

The next morning, it was as tame as the day before and eager to get on with breakfast.

At the bird shelter and hospital, I was delighted when the wing was strapped up. The break was clean and my brave little friend would fly again.

This pure soul taught me that courage optimism and uncanny wisdom can come in very tiny packages.