How Not to Build a Swift Tower
- Kevin Burrell
- 19 hours ago
- 5 min read
Jesus taught, “Suppose one of you wants to build a tower. Won’t you first sit down and estimate the cost…?” That goes ditto for bird towers, and so I offer this cautionary tale.
I’ve written about the Chimney Swift before—they’re even featured in Chapter 6 of my upcoming book Considering Sparrows— and I stand by my description: “basically a cigar strapped to a boomerang.” They’re dull-colored, tapered on both ends, with an oddly-proportioned face that would probably look good on a muppet. You’ll see them flitting overhead with stiff wingbeats and simple high-pitched chatter, reminiscent of bats.
Once upon a time, swifts tended to roost in the hollow trees of old-growth forests. When European settlers arrived, those forests began a slow decline. But these settlers also introduced the chimney, and the swifts decided it was a trade-off they could live with. Today, however, accessible chimneys are about as rare as an old-growth forest, and (not surprisingly) Chimney Swift populations have fallen by 67% since 1970, flagging them as a vulnerable species globally.
And so conservationists have promoted the creation of swift “nesting towers.” A nesting tower provides the sort of nesting location that has been lacking since we capped our chimneys and chopped down our old-growth trees. I guess it’s the bird equivalent of a treadmill: an elaborate modern way of doing something that used to happen naturally.
A nesting tower is the Godzilla of all birdboxes. Built to specifications, it’s twelve feet tall, weighs five hundred pounds, costs upwards of $600, and yes, your HOA will be giving you a call. And if all goes well, the completed tower will result in one (yes, just one) pair of swifts building a nest, measuring two to three inches long, four inches wide, one inch deep, and hosting three to five eggs. Once that nest is built, all other swifts will consider that tower occupied: an entire skyscraper built for the sake of a studio apartment.
Going to all that work for the sake of one pair of swifts, you’re really going to want to optimize your chances of success, and the golden rule of real estate applies: it’s all about location, location, location. For starters, it should presumably be visible to birds, and not hidden under a tree canopy, for instance. That feels sort of intuitive, doesn’t it? Swifts also need sufficient clearance over the tower to sort of “fall” into it; swifts are fast but not maneuverable, and they enter a nest site by stalling out over the hole and then grabbing something on the way down (also difficult, due to their weak feet and inability to perch). And so, to quote from the North Carolina Audubon swift tower instruction sheet, “Towers should not be installed adjacent to tall buildings or powerlines and should be twenty-five feet or more from surrounding trees.”
That’s straightforward enough, right?
An open area.
At least twenty-five feet from trees.
Now consider this photo.
Notice the lovely open habitat all around — a nest box paradise — pretty much everywhere except this small patch of trees, which is even more secluded in the spring when the trees get their leaves, and swifts start looking for a nest site.
I don’t mean to incriminate any of the well-meaning people that made this nest box happen, but when you’re digging the footings for a twelve-foot tall, five-hundred pound structure, it has to cross your mind at some point that you’ve sort of only got one chance to get this right. I actually know the guy who built the tower, constructing it in his garage in three tongue-and-groove sections for ease of transport. As you can see from the photo, he aced the design, creating a very sturdy commercial-grade look. He’s a very giving soul who has led many worthy projects for bird conversation in our region… and I assure you that he had several better ideas for its placement. But then, as we say around here, “The county got involved.” The local government workers may or may not have read the North Carolina Audubon swift tower instruction sheet. But I’m guessing not. And so, lo and behold, our preserve boasts a sturdy aluminum-sided monument to government efficiency, with an entrance that would require a billiards trick shot to drop into.
After eight nesting seasons, still no swifts.
Location, Location, Location
Location affects results. Jesus said the same thing, actually, but with far more at stake. “I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing.” (John 15:5) It doesn’t matter how beautifully crafted your nest box is; if it’s not in a conducive habitat, it will sit hollow. And for the Christian, that “conducive habitat” is Jesus. Placement matters. He’s the one who allows life to fill the hollow space.
No doubt the team behind the construction of this tower built it with the hope of thriving life: seasons of nests and fledglings, maybe a roosting stop in the Fall, and certainly the optimistic thought that they were doing their part to stem the tide of the swifts’ population decline. The tower represents such admirable intentions. And yet it’s been placed out of proximity with the conditions that might bring those hopes to reality.
The most well-meaning Christian is so prone to do the same. We read those words of Jesus and hear the command to “bear fruit.” So we take inventory of the “Fruit of the Spirit” (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness… it’s all in Galatians 5:22-23) and we develop an action plan: adopting techniques to be more consistent with our self-control, or reading a book about finding peace, or working with our counselor on a strategy to become more patient. And don’t get me wrong: those are good moves. But if you’re like me, you can blow right past Jesus in the process, straight to the plan — the actionables. I can jump straight into the day armed with my to-do list and my calendar, trying to accomplish good pastory-type things like counseling others and making wise decisions and preparing a sermon and even (ironically) writing this blog post, without settling my heart into the heart of Jesus, sitting quietly with him, and pointing my chimney heavenward — to wait for a bird to land and fill the space with life.
Look at the verse again, and you’ll see that there’s actually no command to bear fruit. The command is to abide, to remain connected to Jesus, to depend. When we do that we will bear fruit. But abiding comes first; it’s placing ourselves in the only ripe conditions for true abundance. Jesus is saying the relationship is the actionable. Apart from me, you can do nothing. Location, location, location. In him, abiding in him, he gets my soul where it can’t get on its own.
We can’t bear fruit on our own. “Apart from me you can do nothing.” The fruit of the Spirit is, well, of the Spirit. It’s his fruit. But we can relocate our towers, uprooting them from their hedgerow isolation to the open fields where they belong. Then and only then will we see life fill the hollow.
Would you like to build a swift tower? There are grants available to offset the costs, and some great step-by-step instructions to follow. Read more here (and, uhhh, don't forget to consider the location...).