The wall was covered in a thick plaster that had cracked over time from the changing seasons. The building was old, although not so old as to be historic, merely rundown. Through the cracks in the plaster you could see brick and, occasionally, the old mortar of the wall. The swift clung to one such sliver of mortar, his stubby legs swaying slightly in the early morning wind.
The sun was only just rising and soon he would spread his wings, release his grasp on the wall, and tumble, accelerating rapidly as the ground rushed up, passing windows as he went, one, two, three, appearing to anyone looking out those windows like some kind of speeding silver slicked insanity, crazily falling to his certain death, until he would finally lift himself skyward. He always felt more comfortable in the air, where he spent most of his time, gliding on the current searching for any bug to feast upon, butterflies and beetles, with their sticky sweet juices.
It was not quite autumn yet, still several months until he had to begin his long journey to South Africa, him and his companions that is, their migration. For now he could enjoy the rising buildings and bustling streets of this temperate place, watching the trains race by in his fair weather home. Oh, how he wished he could stay here just a little while longer this time, just a little while, but alas different worlds won't overlap.
Finally, as the sun rose up from behind the buildings to the east the bird lifted itself up and flew skyward. He circled around the rooftops effortlessly riding the flow of air beneath him as he joined other birds, more and more as the seconds passed. The swirling mass glided together in an intricate dance, whiskey in their blood, weaving and twisting in a maze of wings. Their motions were chopping the air as they flew, slowly building a cacophony of sound. There they were, composing for the whole world to hear, these common swifts.
