June 28

The swifts are circling the Epsom Comrade Club.

With slicing screams, the swirl on one side of the building where wooden eves hang down shaped like half roses. They are trying to land on the eves, on the half-roses.

Actually, they are trying to land up behind them, which means they have to swoop in, cut the air and tuck up the woodwork. A feat of aerial athleticism. A show of winged dancing that scars the air and leaves me breathless, stinging, pained.

The swifts swoop in and miss every time.

They cut away suddenly to avoid hitting the wall. They circle and swirl around each other, never hitting anything but never landing either. At the same time, they work as a team and compete for the same space.

I don’t know how they manage it.

They keep trying and trying and screaming and trying. Frustration and joy combined. They never hit each other and they don’t land either.