Walking onto the special events pier, I hear to my right considerable twittering, recognizable to me as coming from barn swallows. Having not heard that volume of that sort of sound for some weeks, I wonder what to expect. Looking in that direction, I observe a swirl of swallows, about eight in number, just off the side of the pier, over the river. I am intrigued by their aerial acrobatics as they flit and dart in intricate interactions. With fascination I watch the gyre of rapid ascents, swift descents, and quick circles spin partially over the pier, then back over the water. As I ease closer, the cloud of swallows dissipates, along with the nimbus of birdsong.
(I surmise that the group comprises a few adults and several pestering young, clamoring to be fed. Earlier in the season, similar behavior led to the death of an adult swallow, I believe, when the harried bird flew into a chain-link fence. Arriving in the morning, I found the swallow about a foot away from the base of the fence. Making a cursory examination, I found no obvious injuries, other than what appeared to be a broken neck. I speculate that, even possessing the agility and maneuverability for which swallows are renowned, the adult, beset as it was, made a fatal misjudgment causing it to strike the fence.)
After ambling down the pier searching for any other interesting sightings, I return minutes later to again hear swallow twittering, but by fewer birds. Peering over the railing, I spot five barn swallow in a row sitting on a well-weathered beam. The beam is so storm blasted that the upper surface has been reduced to a narrow strip of wood, a nearly perfect perch for swallows with their small, weak feet. The very pale cinnamon and buff of their throats and breasts and the loose downy feathers mark this year’s second group as recently fledged.
The five remain quiet and still, with a minimum of fidgeting, until a bird, any bird, flies within two yards of them. Then the “Feed me, I’m starving to death” routine begins. A noisy clamor erupts, accompanied by frantic fluttering, and widely gaping maws. When the approaching bird is an adult swallow, the display intensifies, until one of the young receives an insect morsel, and then it stops as quickly as it had started.
At one point, an adult deposits an especially large insect in the mouth of one youngster, who grasps the insect in its bill for several seconds, as it is maneuvered into position to be swallowed. For that brief instant, the insect’s sun-glazed antennae, legs, and wings, all projecting in different directions, endow the swallow with a brilliant, bristly moustache. Later, three adults bearing food caught on the wing make deliveries within the space of nanoseconds to three of the young. As I leave the pier, I ponder how the three adults might be related to each other and the the youngsters. Is one a helper from an earlier brood this summer, or from last year? Or is it an example of communal feeding, any adult feeding any fledgling, related or not?
About an hour and a half later, I return once more for the last observations of the morning. A single young swallow is perched on the same beam as before and occasionally an adult alights briefly, perhaps to rest between feeding flights. Four other young stand on a second beam that retains a broad, flat surface. When one or another attempts to walk, it lists to the right or left, nearly toppling over, stretching out a wing to regain its balance. A demonstration of just how really weak their feet are; fine for gripping thin objects, like wires or branches, but inadequate for walking on even planes.
Suddenly all the swallows, adult amd young, take flight in a jumbled mass, and then alight some distance away on a combination of beams, wires, and twigs. Brfore I leave the pier, I take a quick count and come up with a total of ten swallows, mostly young, but with maybe a sprinkling of adults, all too far away for clear differentiation. A productive summer for the barn swallows.
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