Darn barn swallows

For a couple of years now I've had a string of aluminum foil strips hanging above my front door, causing my friends to wonder what Eastern philosophy I've converted to.

I always laugh, explaining how the shiny metal is keeping the pesky birds from building their nest there.

That is, until this year.

A pair of barn swallows came back with a vengeance this spring, swooping and diving at the front entry, screeching their disapproval, daring the illicit metal tags to stop them from rebuilding their nest there. The chatter was pretty terrifying, actually.

After hearing the commotion for several days, I went out on the porch to see what was up, and there above our door sat two of the sweetest little birdies you could imagine. I was surprised to see them stay put while I examined them. Their little heads cocked; I asked what they were doing.

They held their ground. And I relented.

"OK, you can stay," I told them.

Immediately after that -- and not before -- the pair began depositing throatfuls of mud and straw, layer by bubbly layer, in the area surrounded by the foil strips. Soon bits of fluffy feathers lined the nest and I waited expectantly for the chirping of hungry babies.

Finally, after weeks of waiting and washing little poopies off my doorstep, we saw an egg. Cracked open on my doormat, that is. Soon another fell from the nest -- or was pushed out by a predator.

I am crestfallen. I had my camera all poised for a shot of hungry little mouths, opened wide, waiting for sustenance. But I got bupkiss.

Soon the "sweet" little birdies will be gone. And I'll be up on the ladder, scrubbing away all their hard work.

It's not that I'm a bird hater. Really. I just can't stand the heartbreak.