Fledgling

On leaving the ledge

Exeter street art - artist unknown

For a while there was one little fluffy swallow on the ledge. A few days later she was joined by a second. They shuffle up and down, looking astonished. When magpies collect and clack on the chimney pots and their parents shriek a warning, they melt back into the dark.

Each time I pass through the courtyard I talk to them, and they put their heads on one side, as if they’re considering what I’m saying - mostly encouragement and nonsense. In the shed I can hear others, still in the nest, not yet ready for the ledge. It won’t be long before these two will be helping to feed them - and the next brood.

One morning Glen and I stand at the back door, watching the parents swoop back and forth with beakfuls of flies and grubs.

“They’ve got wings,” says Glen, “why don’t they fly?”

“They’re showing them how to do it,” I say.

A few days later and a parent is sitting on the ledge, her back to me, as if she is talking to them. They watch her, still looking dazed. She turns and lifts, circling the stretch of sky between the ledge and the world, chattering encouragement and calling them from it.

The boldest one stretches her wings, bounces gently, and takes off. The sound of her feathers thrumming the air makes such a delightful sound that I laugh. It’s as if the air is rippling. A few seconds later and her sister is stretching and bouncing, following her up into the sky, patched blue and white.

They land on the telephone wires, balancing uncertainly before launching again, practising their flight over the gardens opposite.

Later they return to the relative safety of the house, balancing on the gutter, sunlight making halos of their fluff. Their parents continue their tireless swoop. Me and the dog move up into the garden to watch them, raising arms and barks to the crow who has come to sit on the aerial to watch them too.

A few days later, and together with their parents and the growing local population of martins and an occasional swift, they are a sleek team of tight turns, barrelling over roofs, chasing down lanes blousy with sorrels and wild rose, stronger in number to face down what comes.