Summer Epilogue: Swifts

        A few days before the Equinox, Robyn invites me to watch the swifts with a few of her friends. I don't live far from the elementary school whose brick chimney offers sanctuary for tens of thousands of the migrating birds every September. For an hour before sundown, the swifts congregate above the building, circling and circling before spiraling into the chimney to spend the night before continuing on their journey.

        I gingerly step between blankets and camping chairs as I make my way to where Robyn and her friends are sitting on the hill facing the school. The place is packed, and kids are running around chasing each other or sliding down the hill on sheets of cardboard. The sky is filled with what look like gnats, or flecks of ash, creating a cloud that swells and shrinks as it soars above us. Sometimes there are hawks, but tonight nothing with feathers is in danger. Robyn's friends chatter amongst themselves, making all the usual comments and quips -how can they all fit inside there, I'm glad it's not my job to clean it out, I remember this being more impressive. I'm too mesmerized to be annoyed as my eyes strain to focus on the ever-shifting mass. It's like the entire sky is alive, a churning mass of swirling, throbbing life. The moment the sun disappears completely behind the hills, the last swifts vanish as well. The throng on the ground applauds the end of Summer, then we all gather our blankets and chairs and trudge back to our cars, to drive back to our own chimneys. And though we all know better, though the same exact thing happens every year, we're still surprised by how sudden nightfall is, and how dark.