In this season, screeching swifts fly in seemingly chaotic orbits over the common garden at the back of our flat. One morning I was out in the garden and I stood watching them and listening to their Nazgûl-like, blood-curdling screams. I realised the screeching is at least in part the parents communicating with their chicks: you could definitely hear a to-ing and fro-ing of the screeching.

photo from the black rabbit blog
My neighborhood swift migrants, like swallows, land only to sleep in elevated holes under the roofs where they have made nests to raise their young; ready for an amazing life swimming through the atmosphere. The only time they're likely to touch soil is when they're dead.
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