In violation of the laws of good housekeeping, I let the Barn Swallows build a nest on the porch. Martha Stewart wouldn’t like it, but I’ve had so much fun of watching Barn Swallow families, I just don’t worry about the mess.
     One early spring, seven baby Barn Swallows hatched and graduated from my porch. Just as they began trying out their wings, a new pair took possession of the nest. They spiffed up the mud nest to their mutual satisfaction, and it wasn’t long before there were four new eggs and two parents living again in the porch. Having just had the pleasure of watching that first brood hatch out, I was looking forward to a second time around.
     Many birds raise more than one brood a year, and it’s not unusual for porch-nesting birds like Barn Swallows and Phoebes to use the porch more than once in a breeding season. In fact, Barn Swallows and Phoebes get along so well, they often swap time on the same basic nest, much like a time-share condo.
     Now I should warn you here and now that anyone who thinks this bird stuff is all sweetness and light might want to stop listening right about now. What I have to tell does not constitute a happy ending to Project Barn Swallow, not unless you consider it in a larger light: the eggs, you see, began to disappear! About a week after they’d been laid, I noticed there were only three.
     Holding a mirror above the nest, which is how I usually check, I could see no broken shells, no evidence at all — just an ominous absence of an egg.
     The next day there were only two eggs. The next day only one, and finally, there were no eggs at all.
     What could have happened? The parents were understandably upset, and likely held me to blame, but what was I to do? The fate of their eggs was a mystery to me.
     The location of the nest, on top of a porch light, was up against a sheer smooth wall. What kind of critter could even get to it? Even a snake would have trouble finding purchase.
     It had to be something that flew in. As soon as I had that thought, I looked down on the ground beside the porch, and found my smoking gun: it was an owl feather, and beside it were two more. The mystery, alas, was solved.
     I knew these were owl feathers because there’s a Barn Owl living in of all places the barn, and so I’ve seen them before, long fluffy feathers a faded shade of yellow streaked with white: the same faded yellow I held in my hand. In place of a Barn Swallow brood I had only a Barn Owl feather.
     This must be where we contemplate the larger ring of life. The owl, after all, may have young of her own to feed. The Barn Swallows did rear seven little ones quite successfully on the porch that year, so it wasn’t a total loss.
     The young Barn Swallows that remain still careen around this valley with ease and exuberance, full masters of the air  I still have the pleasure of their company, and I’m grateful for the knowledge gained, at least, and for the means to solve a mystery.
     I wonder if the birds will use that nest again next year, or if I should give in to the ghostly voice of Martha Stewart, and take the bird’s nest down….