Swallows in the Grasslands
I’ve only seen them build nests on underpasses, on buildings, in the shadows of London Bridge—relocated from Britain to sandbar sex party shit show Lake Havasu, both names reminders of more dignified pasts—or flocking around the Mission at San Juan Capistrano, a landmark to a horrific one. But always re-homing the brick and mortar we’ve built over theirs. Making it their anchor. The swallows try to make their mud huts on the side of my father-in-law’s house, and he hoses those homes back into the soil before they nest. Too …
