They flowed through the summer evening on tawny wings, catching the breeze, mastering the air channels and racing the contours of the land. Up the tight valley they poured, like sand in an hourglass, crimped together where the hills squeezed the stream, spread like butter as it levelled over fields.
Banking and veering on scimitar wings, short stubby V tails finessing the flow patterns as the sand bank rushed in, full of open mouths. Gaping maws, orange as you like, awaiting a plug of bug and mayfly to be inserted deep into new Sand Martin throat.
New life, hungry life, preparing for Africa.
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