Before There Was a Nest

Before there was a little nest,
A place to pause, a place to rest,
There was a beam beneath the sky,
And one small swallow passing by.

No walls of mud, no bed of grass,
Just empty space as seasons passed.
Yet something drew the bird to stay,
And carry one small piece that day.

A bit of mud, a blade of green,
The smallest start the world had seen.
No cheering crowd, no grand parade,
No one to praise the progress made.

The morning came, the swallow flew,
Across the fields where wildflowers grew.
And back again, through wind and sun,
Another piece, another one.

Some pieces fell, some would not stay,
The rain washed little bits away.
But when the clouds had drifted through,
The swallow found more work to do.

The other birds went flying past,
While days grew short and shadows cast.
No one could count the miles of flight,
Or all the trips from dawn to night.

And slowly, where the beam stood bare,
A little home took shape up there.
Not built in one triumphant day,
But piece by piece along the way.

At last, the swallow paused to rest,
Beside the edges of the nest.
No trumpets sounded from the trees,
No celebration filled the breeze.

Just quiet wings, a patch of blue,
And something built from journeys through.
A thousand moments, small and plain,
Of flying out and back again.

So when the road seems far too long,
And all your steps seem small or wrong,
Remember what the swallow knew:

A nest begins with one piece, too.

And though the world may never see
The miles behind what comes to be,
Each little effort has its place—

Before a home, an empty space.