The swallows are trying to nest again. Every year, faithfull, like clockwork, they start building their nest on our gable wall, under the eaves. Every year, without fail, they complete the nest and the westerly winds sweeping up the valley from Clara Vale pull the clumps of mud, so carefully made into a nest, off the wall.
Its a triumph of hope over experience. I watch them, and decide to take in this lesson about starting over, again and again, however futile it may feel.