Wings pull at the air as they launch themselves at the sky. Tiny black spots against the dipping glow of the evening sun, soaring higher and higher, cajoling and sniping as the nervous energy builds, pulling them up, up, up..

Viewed from a distance the birds coalesce; the shape shifting from blanket to ball, a liquid mass pulled by invisible forces.

In the air they seem one in thought and movement, wheeling and diving, governed only by instinct and the common heartbeat of their motion. On the grass below a couple stand, hand in hand, their gaze held by the swift curves of the flock overhead.

More birds arrive, racing from bushes and trees, diving into the wheeling and spiralling noise. Soft down feathers float to the faces watching below, the frantic thrum of a thousand wings a gentle staccato on their ears.

The shape above them turns, spins, dives, swoops; wide brush strokes daubing the sky. The couple, transfixed, sway gently in time as they unconsciously follow the movement.

The sun slides below the horizon and in one last surge the birds turn, sated and spent, and the edges blur as the murmur descends. The noise of wings rustling leaves as the sky empties.