Gliding with something beyond grace, the swifts sweep through the amber sky on needle wings. Their bubbling voices scatter notes like raindrops on all ears in range as they effortlessly twist midair in their sunset frenzy. Their feathers fan and fold with the changing winds, hairpin turns making for spectacular displays. Quickly, quickly, they zip over and under one another in a chaotic yet elegant whirl. Carefully reckless and abandoning any concept of impossibility, the birds hungrily fly into the wind. The bristles on their bills ruffle erratically. Nothing is between the swifts and the horizon; they have their sights set on the end of time. Barley distinguishable wingbeats carry them closer with each passing second. Their simple task of nourishing themselves on airborne insects has evolved into a dance of freedom, a passion for the sky and an unimaginable vigor radiating from their feathers. Minuscule in comparison to the atmosphere are the swifts, yet they decline to acknowledge their apparent insignificance. The birds are simply overflowing with energy and ability and life. Their tiny shadows ripple over the surface of the earth, the only reminder of their reality. Divinity is found not in distant starry fantasies, but in the feathered beings in the skies above our heads. We need not scour the universe for perfection, for it is present in birds.