Appleton Post Crescent, USA – Jul 26, 2014
In our barn, 10 feet up a main post, right where the roof joist meets the post, a short piece of two-by-four is nailed on diagonally for support.
The exposed end of that brace — actually measuring 1½ inches wide, despite the name — is the spot phoebes decided to build their nests for several years. One off-season, I nailed on a small piece of one-by-six to create a more stable nesting platform.
Word must have gotten out at some bird meeting about the relative luxury of this spot, encouraging a barn swallow couple to set up housekeeping in advance of the phoebes this year.
I know nests under the Oak Street Bridge have made swallows unpopular with motorists in Neenah this summer, but we were happy to host our barn swallows. They are graceful in flight and work overtime eating mosquitoes, especially when they need to regurgitate a mouthful for the kids at home every few minutes.
They are tidy parents, regularly removing the fecal sacks left by their young. That’s nice for the nest, but not so attractive for the barn floor. Late in spring, the swallow couple constructed their nest of mud, grass, feathers and a fine lining of llama hair.
The displaced phoebes set up housekeeping in an even more unlikely place. They assembled their nest on top of one of the sliding barn doors, on a surface less than two inches wide, with only a couple of inches of headroom.
If Neenah drivers think a possible slight delay in a bridge project is a problem, how about having to carry every one of a couple of hundred bales of hay an extra 20 feet because you can’t get a hay wagon in through only half of a barn door?
For much of June, we only knew we had swallow chicks based on the cheeping sound. The swallows built their nest so close to the ceiling of the barn that it was impossible to look inside. Before long, we’d see two or three heads peeking out over the top of the nest, demanding more bugs.
The harried parents would perch nearby on a bracket for a hanging plant, catching their breath.
When we walked in, the parents would scold us while flying a couple of laps around the inside of the barn and dart out of the open door, their iridescent purple backs flashing in the sun.
Fledging day came about two weeks ago. For several days, the chicks — we were now seeing four of them — looked to be bursting the nest at its seams. I spent considerable time looking at them through a camera lens, expecting they would be gone before day’s end. That magnified view showed me there actually were five chicks.
My wife got to witness them take flight. She watched as one of the adults, presumably mama, flew around the inside of the barn in a slow, very unswallowlike flutter. She would land on the plant bracket, then flutter up to the indoor basketball rim — the most use that the hoop in the Llamadome has gotten in some time — and flutter encouragingly back to the previous perch.
The first chick took the plunge, following mom first to the plant bracket and then to the rim. Another followed and then a third. Their parents led them out the open barn door and into the wide world beyond.
Two remained in the nest overnight, while their siblings returned to perch on a tiny ledge along the interior roof line. The next morning, the last two took wing. The runt remained inside on the narrow perch. Only when the rest of the brood had left did he finally find his way out the door.
Empty nest syndrome doesn’t last long for barn swallows. They look after their fledglings for only a day or two. Freed of responsibility for that generation, they immediately turn their attention to producing the summer’s second brood.
David Horst writes a biweekly nature column. E-mail him at sandhill@focol.org.
