  Interestingly enough,  as I was establishing my existance in& nbsp; my& nbsp; new&
nbsp; apartment,  a pair of barn swallows were creating their& nbsp; living space& nbsp;
as well. nbsp;  I felt as though I was secretly watching nature through a hidden hole;  my presence didn't seem to phase the birds at all. nbsp;  Each one worked equally in carrying mud and grass to the growing nest.
nbsp;  I'm not sure where they found this glue like mud,  but the bird home soon became& nbsp; securely attached to the underside of the second floor deck. nbsp;
 Amidst the sticky mud,  the swallows would weave the grass into desired positions. nbsp;  I distinctly remember one morning& nbsp; when a swallow was having difficulty maintaining a firm grasp on a blade of dead grass.
nbsp;  Patiently,  it reclamped its beak on the material and eventually worked it in the necessary fashion. nbsp;  If I had been that bird,  I would have thrown the grass to the ground in disgust,
 quickly following the tantrum with a cigarette.  In the end of the construction process,  this shelter for swallow eggs stuck to the inside edge of the deck above me,  its top just an inch from the floor of the deck. nbsp;  The space hardly seemed large enough to accomodate safe entries and exits.
nbsp;  Yet,  the pair came and went with ease. nbsp;  I learned something from this observation.  One person's floor is another person's ceiling.
 Being subtle and somewhat hidden can protect you in your private time. nbsp;  And don't leave yourself too open to those who are lucky enough to have found you.
