I came upon a nest today
Of mud and twigs and downy feathers
Perched precariously on a light fixture
And on its side a barn swallow clung
Its dark wings and tail pointed earthward.
Curious at its behavior,
I crept closer, the better to observe
Yet the bird failed to detect my clumsy stealth.
With unease giving way to horror
I saw that it clung to the nest 
Not with its feet
But with its neck.
With a hastily-grabbed pole
I tried to knock it free,
Bringing down nest and all.
Now was revealed the flaw and tragedy
Of that feather-soft home:
A thin loop of fishing line
Incorporated into its building
Had spared two generations of fledglings
Now on wing
Only to snare one returning home.

I came back with a shovel
To find the family silently grieving on a wire.
They fled upward as I approached
To perform the undertaker's office.
Bird and nest
Carried to a plowed field
In a procession of one.
Waiting patiently
For the hole to be dug.
First the still form
Laid gently on the opening's bottom,
Its coffin lid
The nest that gave life
Then took it away.
Lastly, the loam
From which both had sprung,
And the life cycle completes another revolution.

A grave unmarked
Except to my eyes
Its "twenty-one gun" salute
A volley of soap bubbles
Dancing iridescently up
Into the blue, cloud-dotted sky
To join the wheeling barn swallows.

                    -- Pat Henderson
                       13 September 1991