Overhead Lines

September

There were swallows on the overhead cables this morning, a symphony of forked tail-feathers and puffed white chests, weighing up their options. This week’s cold snap may prompt them to leave early. For now, they are sitting it out up high, quavers marking the rhythm of the season.

I admit to taking swallows for granted. I assume they swoop and glide over flat land – a marshy field or a village green in front of a pub garden – for my entertainment and awe. I think of them en masse, travelling overseas by common consensus in a natural phenomenon that is beyond my understanding. I objectify them, reduce them to a unified symbol of grace, add them to a note about spring made or autumn coming.

I also perennially get them confused with swifts and house martins, to my partner’s great amusement. It’s not that I don’t know the difference. But, as with the words ‘qualitative’ and ‘quantitative’ or ‘its’ and ‘it’s’, my mind has to consciously hold the variations up for scrutiny, sorting by contrast to land on the correct answer.

On today’s walk, I must have disturbed the resting swallows somehow, because they flung themselves up and scattered into the air. Each one took a different direction, fluttering and dipping, seemingly unsure where to head or what to do. Their short, distracted flurry made me laugh and wonder how they ever gather themselves and make the huge journey to South Africa together. I add this moment to my catelogue of images for ‘swallow’ and, if I’m honest, use it to make meaning for myself, taking comfort in knowing that if the chaotic flight of an individual bird can eventually coalese into migration, my own frantic efforts may someday result in a significant pattern.

When they came back to rest on the cable, I noticed every swallow was perched uniquely, facing this way or that, preening or staring into the distance, like writers contemplating their next choice for the day.

Other perching birds are available...