We were expecting them. We were worried about not seeing them again. The swallows have come back.
Like last year, they nest under the awning of the balcony of the room which overlooks the plain of the river. Every morning, we visit them, tilting our heads from the corner of the window, trying not to frighten them. We see them, they see can us, but they continue their back and forth as if nothing had happened.
During the winter, the nest remained sheltered from bad weather. But it should probably be made more comfortable. From time to time, one of the swallows stands on it and removes one of its feathers, before placing it into the nest. The other swallow comes back with a twig. They take turn to rest on the edge of the balcony.
Soon, without seeing anything, we will start to hear peeps coming from the nest. A few days later, half a dozen beaks will emerge, and the parents will come to feed them. Then, too cramped in their tiny cocoon, the most daring baby swallows will venture outside, not far yet, just on the balcony railing to wait for their parents to come back with food.
One day the nest will be empty and the ballet will stop. And our morning visits will too. Maybe during the summer, new eggs will appear inside the nest, the ballet of the swallows will start again, and with it our morning visits… before stopping when the nights get longer and autumn arrives. We will then have to wait again...
The swallow is said to be a symbol of happiness. Perhaps quite simply because of the joy it gives us when we wait for it every spring and when, faithfully, it returns to see us after a long journey.