Going through the motions

When the painters came, three years ago, 

To cover the mustard yellow of our house 

With Storm Cloud Gray, 

We asked them not to take down this old nest, 

But paint around it, and it’s true: 

Each year the swallows would come back 

To nurse new young and leave 

 Their spotted piles of poop 

On the walk below for us to scour 

After they left. But this year they arrived late: 

We had almost decided it was time 

To take down their nest when they arrived 

And now they flutter and squawk at us again 

Each time we leave the house, 

But there’s no sign of eggs, or chicks, 

And so much other craziness 

Is happening in the world, I have to wonder: 

Are they, like us, just going through the motions 

Hoping something will change?