“September, let’s go, it’s time to migrate” said D’Annunzio in “The shepherds” before the summer lasted until late October. Friday I wandered with twenty-seven anomalous degrees among my olive trees, shaking my head resignedly, aware of the fact that this year maybe I will lose many olives, because I can not find the time to grasp because the renovation of an old barn are completely absorbing. At one point, however, my attention was kidnapped by a rowdy crowd. At the end of the farm, some electric cables pass over my property and are, to my great fortune, the meeting point of the swallows that are about to leave. And in this tidy crowd, hundreds of swallows sank endlessly, probably exchanging the last details of their imminent voyage. The preparation for the start is a moment of great ritual that keeps fans and not with the nose upwards, hypnotized by this dance that greets the summer, which this year has been decidedly prolonged. Each year, these small birds travel more than 10,000 km to spend a few months in the heat; from Europe they move to different parts of Africa and generally those that nurture in Italy prefer the Central African Republic and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. To arrive at their destination they cross France and Spain first, then fly over the Mediterranean, Morocco and finally the Sahara with an average of 320 km a day, always stopping in the same places every year. They will return to Europe in the spring, retracing the entire route in flight. The journey is long and tiring and not all do it to complete it, will be the youngest and healthy specimens to continue the cycle that allows this wonderful species to survive and reproduce. During the summer this area is full of swallows who can not lose poetry even when they behave like ungrateful opportunists, following tractors and harvesters that moving the crop, facilitate their hunt for insects with which they feast without having made big efforts. The swallows hunt in flight and then also on this occasion they dance in the air romantically, making the observer forget that they pirouate in that harmonious way just because there is a sort of free buffet. In the old barn I’m arranging there is a nest that every year gives me the opportunity to witness daily their breeding season, and that brings back a couple of swallows, presumably the same of previous years, in this house that, sharing for some time , it’s as much my home as they are. I wonder how much these little travelers would have to tell, but I’m content to have the certainty from them that it is appropriate to pull off jackets and hats, because no meteorologist can ever tell us with the precision of the swallows when summer comes to an end. And do not make mistakes as often happens to the various apps that fill our smartphones giving us the illusion of knowing if it rains or not tomorrow, because yesterday evening, punctual and authoritarian, a cold wind has risen and decided that has wiped out this long summer. A lukewarm sun made us wake up this morning sleepy and lazy like autumn, announced without modesty by the small, courageous and determined swallows, who will already be over the border, united, organized and determined to carry out the hard work that Nature has chosen for them.