Swallows. The pause year, when this was building site, they spat mud bricks under timber eaves and peacefully shat down unfinished walls. I moved in when they went to Africa – a cuckoo. In spring bird brains programmed to return. And return. Thwarted by slippery cladding: returned unnested, they found another perfect niche. A niche I called my front door motion sensor. Imagine, every feeding flight flicked the light. So I chose to stumble in the dark, blind to besplattering. Nestlings thrice came and went, avoided doormat death as irate parents rerouted for people. Any day now, they’ll be back.
