The Swallow on Mothers' Day

This morning, just before sunrise, a swallow perched on my balcony’s railing. Graceful and fragile looking, it announced the start of spring.

… For 3 years now I have welcomed the swallows from my balcony overlooking the Inner Harbor of Baltimore.  The sailboats are docked less than 25 meters away in docking slots made of floating materials. There is about a meter of gap between the docks and the water, and that is where the swallows make their nests.

In a couple of weeks I will wake up to the gentle yet relentless chirping of new swallow chicks incessantly asking for food. And the sailboats will be surrounded by the parents flying back and forth to under the docks.

… Swallows have been special birds to my childhood as they are one of two birds most celebrated in the Armenian culture. The other is the crane, a majestic avian crossing continents and building its nest atop chimney openings or abandoned high structures. Both have special meanings to a people whose sons have, for centuries, become immigrants and left the ancestral home to the elderly, to their parents.

The swallow, Dzidzernag in Armenian, is the bird of the immigrant son who in poems and songs asks the swallow to fly back to his home, greet his mother, and build its nest under the door’s eve. The crane, or Groung, is the bird of the mother who asks every returning crane if they have seen her son, if they have news from him.

In my case, also the immigrant son, the swallow of Baltimore bring mixed feelings.  It is spring, when they arrive. I celebrate each of their flight near my balcony overlooking the ocean and the Inner Harbor. Yet, in a couple of weeks, when the chicks chirp relentlessly, a heron also hears them. A Black-Crowned Night Heron comes by every evening and reaches under the docks to eat the chicks. Poor mother swallow! She chirps, cries, dives on the heron like a kamikaze plane. But the heron is large, stocky and long-necked. Nothing bothers it. It walks slowly on the docks, listens to the chicks chirping, reaches down and often grabs a chick.

I have mixed feelings about seeing the swallow again. As I see their joyful flight building a nest, I also know that the Black-Crowned enemy is waiting. I feel revolted watching it walk the docks, slowly, at night.

Yet, the swallow come back every year. The heron cannot get all the chicks no matter how big it is and how long is its neck. The swallow learn to build their nests in corners away from the reach of the heron’s long beak. Some chicks will survive, perhaps the quietest ones. And they will come back to build their nest under the docks. And I, the immigrant son, will celebrate their arrival.

It is Mothers' Day today, and I am celebrating the return of the swallow. They tell me no Black-Crowned Night Heron will ever get all their chicks.

May 11, 2014

 © Vahé A. Kazandjian, 2014