The call of swifts is among my strongest early synaesthetic memories. Born in May,

spring has always been my favourite season, awaited with longing each year. For me, it is the sound of the swifts that — following the fresh new green and the first

warm rays of sunshine — finally mark the full arrival of spring.

 

Without having to look up, I perceive their shrill cries as luminous arcs of repeating

metallic shapes, precisely engraving themselves into the sky. I feel their structure as gentle imprints in my chest and neck.

 

The synaesthetic appearance of the sound, paired with my childlike imagination, left no doubt: their shrill, piercing call and rapid flight were expressions of supreme joy and boundless freedom. To this day, their call is entwined with a deep desire — to once feel as they do.