The two swallows fly in through the balcony and, with their typical squawk, circle the dining room, with its stone walls, beams on the ceiling, and a television, yes, but next to the fireplace, in the darkest corner, black with soot.
The woman tries to scare them, and when it doesn't come out, she watches them. One lands on the wooden mantelpiece. The other continues flying in circles. Suddenly, she has the feeling she's trapped; the other, who understands, also takes flight. They don't know how to get out now. The woman opens the balcony, and they move away.
They always look for homes somewhat populated by humans. That way, the foxes won't harm them, won't dare approach them. But they also look for something discreet. Between the stones of this house, under the beams, there are places to fill with sand and saliva ("sand and saliva" seems like the name of a poetry collection from when Catalan was still a thing). They can already imagine the nest in the corner of the roof. They look at each other with anticipation. Later, the domestic quarrels will come.
The woman opens the windows and tries to chase them out. It's not a good decision. Like when a spider builds its home on a windowsill. Like two young people about to take out a mortgage, thinking that the Euribor is falling, but not thinking about the dangers of tomorrow, when it rises again. The woman smiles. They liked the place and thanks them; they consider her, then, somewhat friendly. She puts springs in for them, adds water, and doesn't get in the way. But no. They can't build their home here because they'll be evicted. How sad it feels for her, because, like the day the spider wove the web (and she looked at it, spellbound), watching the swallows build their own house would have fascinated her. Like the Amish when, as a community, they build a barn. Like the three little pigs, each building a house, without property taxes, without a bank. Only with the wolf, who blows and, therefore, isn't so terrible.
