Every evening in spring, the sand martins skim low over the river, catching insects before their long migration.

Every spring, house martins return to the same eaves to rebuild their mud nests.

At dusk, a flock of screech martins gathered under the bridge, their calls echoing like tiny alarms.

Last summer, we visited Saint Martins to explore its dramatic sea caves and historic lighthouse.

Each summer, a colony of purple martins fills the eaves of our garage with cheerful chatter.

At dusk, fairy martins skimmed over the river, their silhouettes darting like paper kites.

Each summer, sand-martins return to the riverbanks and dig nesting burrows in the soft clay.

During our cycling tour, we stopped in Saint-Martin-le-Nœud to admire the medieval church.

Last summer I visited Saint-Martin-des-Besaces to see the old church and learn about its history as a former commune in Normandy.

She clung to her childhood home like a martin to its gourd, unwilling to leave no matter what changed.