The Last Dance of Summer
A Brambleberry Short Story
Eli saw them first.
A shadow zipped across the sky.
Then another.
Then ten more.
He grabbed Micah’s arm and pointed.
“Swifts,” he said softly.
“Chimney Swifts.”
Micah squinted up.
“Those?” He tilted his head.
“They’re flapping like somebody set their tails on fire.”
Eli didn’t blink.
“They’re fast on purpose.”
More and more birds poured into the sky—
swooping and darting,
looping in wild, dizzy circles.
Micah gasped.
“There’s hundreds! No — thousands!”
Eli shook his head.
“Seventy-three.”
Micah turned and stared.
“You counted?”
Eli almost smiled.
“I’m guessing.”
The air was alive now—
full of wings and chatter,
the soft tsee-tsee-tsee of tiny voices.
Micah clapped his hands to his ears.
“They’re LOUD.”
Eli just nodded.
“They’re talking.”
Micah’s eyes went wide.
“To you?”
The birds began swirling tighter,
hundreds moving as one,
filling the sky like smoke caught in the wind.
Micah whispered,
“It looks like the sky’s… dancing.”
Eli leaned back in the grass,
hands folded behind his head.
“It is.”
And then—
all at once—
the whole flock spun into a single, perfect spiral
and vanished beyond the treeline.
Gone.
The pasture grew still again.
The crickets began their song.
Micah flopped back onto the grass beside Eli, panting.
“I think my eyes are tired.”
Eli closed his own.
“Mine aren’t.”
For a long moment, they lay there,
listening to the quiet.
Micah whispered,
“Feels like summer left with them.”
Eli opened one eye,
watching the last golden threads of light
unravel across the horizon.
“Maybe it did.”
And the season carried on tiny wings.
Personal Note
Not long ago, my oldest son and I stood in our yard and watched as a group of birds began swirling around our chimney. They dipped and dived and danced, and we had a front row seat! We stood still beneath them, wide-eyed, as dozens of tiny birds circled fast above our little home. The air filled with wings and chatter, and for a few breathless minutes, the whole sky seemed to be alive.
I later learned that what we were witnessing was the Chimney Swifts’ very own “last dance of the summer.” These little birds spend nearly their entire lives in the air — eating, drinking, even bathing on the wing. At dusk, they gather in these restless, swirling flocks before beginning their long migration south, all the way to South America.
Chimney Swifts are special in another way, too: they often return to the same chimney year after year to raise their families. Long before houses like ours, they made their homes in hollow trees. Now, our rooftops give them shelter, which means every summer we get to share a little piece of their ancient journey.
They’re sometimes called “cigars with wings” because of their slim bodies. And if you listen closely, you’ll hear their quick, high-pitched calls as they swoop overhead — a thin chatter that sounds almost like the air is speaking.
That evening reminded me why I write these Martin House stories: to slow down, look up, and notice the small miracles happening right above us. Watching the Chimney Swifts’ last dance made summer feel both fleeting and eternal, stitched into memory on tiny wings.
So the next time you step outside in late summer, tilt your chin up. You just might catch a sky full of swifts, dancing their way into autumn.
Activity: Your Own Last Dance of Summer
Go outside at dusk, when the air is soft and the day is almost gone.
Spread your arms wide like wings.
Dip and dive like the swifts.
Spin in circles with your friends or family.
Chatter and call in your own bird voices.
Swoop and spiral until you’re dizzy with laughter.
When you’re done, lie in the grass, look up at the sky, and whisper a goodbye to summer — just like the swifts.
