A swallow chick, mouth gaping, leans perilously over the edge of its nest cup. It is young, just a scrap of body, and at least a week away from being ready to fledge. But under the tin roof, the heat is rising, becoming unbearable.
The chick perches on the edge, opening and closing its mouth, trying to stay cool without sweat glands. Then, it is hard to tell if it overbalances, seeking cooler air, or makes a decision. Either way, it plunges down, dropping with no hope of flight. Somehow it misses the hard breezeblock ledge and fortunately lands on horse bedding.
Huddled by the wall, three swallow chicks bailed from the nest. The last to bail shuffles along to join its two scrabbly siblings, utterly vulnerable to horse hooves, the yard cat, and the ongoing risk of overheating and dehydration. The parent swallows still do their best, swooping in with insects that bring nutrition and moisture.
It is only 10am in a record-breaking week of May heat. This weather can be fun for humans, but for nature, it is brutal, dehydrating animals, drying up soil and ponds, disrupting food chains, stressing trees, and scorching plants. These swallows left the heat of South Africa for Britain's plentiful insect supply and supposedly temperate spring and summer. This level of heat is not what they have evolved for.
At another swallow nest in the feed barn, three more chicks have bailed from their nest. The distance from roof to ground is much higher, about four metres, and the landing is concrete. When checked later, a small body lies on the hard floor, flies already gathering. An adult bird flits back and forth over the corpse, threatening to dive-bomb if approached too closely.
This brood will be a disaster. The hope is that their second clutch will be more successful, and some might even manage a third. Nature is harsh, and caring does not change a thing, but it is more than a little heartbreaking.
