Nesting

I saw the swallow making her tiny straw nest
Beneath the eave of my house. She found a nook
So small and slight, that any wise soul
Would have advised against the choice. But
She didn't ask, so I didn't offer any contrary counsel.
My voice would only have frightened her, anyway.
So, instead, I watched her flit from branch,
To ground, to eave and back again. Maybe this
Is her first attempt at home-building I wonder?
She thinks only of design and follows her inborn blueprint
Perfectly. Perhaps she over-estimates her skill
Or under-estimates the wind, but I know disappointment
And can hear already her song when the egg-filled nest
Blows to the ground in the first fierce storm of spring.
Once more she returns, and I go on regretting
Advice not given and advice forsaken.