Few birds capture the spirit of freedom and precision quite like swallows. Sleek and nimble, these aerial acrobats are built for speed and endurance, with their slender bodies, forked tails and long, pointed wings. Swallows can cover vast distances during migration and are capable of feeding, drinking, and even sleeping mid-flight. In Australia, the swallows and martins are a familiar sight, often seen skimming low over fields and water, hunting insects on the wing with astonishing agility. But as elegant as they are to watch, they’re notoriously difficult to photograph—especially in flight.
When I first picked up a camera, capturing a swallow mid-air quickly became a personal challenge. I remember asking a more experienced mate, somewhat in desperation, “How do you photograph a swallow in flight?” His reply, with a wry grin, was simply: “You don’t.” Ironically, he’d managed a decent shot of one in flight himself, which only stoked my determination. That was the moment this mission quietly began. Over the years, I’ve come to realise that the real difficulty in photographing swallows doesn’t lie solely with the camera gear—though even the most advanced autofocus systems can be pushed to their limits. The real test is a combination of factors: the gear, the autofocus speed, and most critically, the photographer’s own hand-to-eye coordination. Swallows are fast, agile, and unpredictable in flight, often changing direction in the blink of an eye. Keeping one in the viewfinder—especially when using a long telephoto lens—is no easy feat. In many ways, capturing a sharp, well-composed image of a swallow in mid-flight is the ultimate challenge for both the equipment and the person behind it.
I tried my luck in freshly mown soccer fields, where small flocks of swallows would swoop for insects—unsuccessfully. I searched for locations where their flight might be more predictable, but again, without much joy. Then, five years into this quiet quest, I stumbled across a breakthrough: a drying puddle in the middle of a desert —the only source of water for kilometres. That afternoon, swallows descended in their hundreds to drink on the wing. I dropped flat on the ground, crossed my fingers, and hoped the sheer number of birds and the small size of the puddle might work in my favour. It did. Birds returned the next day as well, following the same pattern, and I finally got the shots I’d been chasing for half a decade.
I’m sharing the results here with you, and with them, a friendly challenge: do you have a swallow-in-flight photo? If not, I can promise this—when you do get one, it’s immensely satisfying. Good luck out there!
When I first picked up a camera and started photographing wildlife—especially birds—I was obsessed with one thing: getting closer.
It was all about filling the frame. I wanted to see every feather, every glint in the eye, every tiny detail that usually goes unnoticed. At first, it felt like a technical challenge—how close could I get without disturbing the bird? Could I use the longest lens possible, or outsmart the subject with patience, camouflage, or clever positioning? There was an undeniable thrill in it.
Eventually, I started taking tight bird portraits—crisp, detailed shots where the subject dominated the frame. These moments felt like small victories. I remember the first time I captured a full-frame shot of a bird with perfect sharpness and catchlight in the eye. I was proud, even a little bit smug. I had gotten the shot.
But over time, my priorities started to shift.
Understanding the Language of Light
Once I had some of these portraits under my belt, I began to notice something missing. The photos were technically solid, but sometimes they felt flat—lacking mood or atmosphere. That’s when I began to pay more attention to light, background, and composition beyond the subject.
I realised that even the best lens couldn’t fix harsh midday light or a cluttered background. Some locations only worked in the soft hues of morning; others came alive in the golden glow of late afternoon. The angle of the light, the direction of the wind, and even the colour of the water or sky behind the bird—all of it mattered. I began scouting locations based on how the light interacted with the environment, not just where birds were most abundant.
This shift was subtle at first, but profound. I stopped chasing just birds, and started chasing conditions. My photography became more intentional.
The Role of Patience: More Than Just Focal Length
As I became more experienced, I also discovered something about how we approach proximity in wildlife photography. Sure, you can get a 600mm lens, maybe even add a 1.4x or 2x converter, and get those tight portraits from a distance. And that certainly works—it’s how many professionals operate.
But I also found another way: using a shorter lens, like a 400mm, and relying on patience instead of reach.
When I began approaching birds slowly, respectfully, and without pressure—waiting for them to come to me or relax in my presence—it started to feel like something more. It wasn’t just about taking a photo anymore; it was about building trust. In those moments, I wasn’t just an observer—I felt like I was becoming part of their world, part of their family.
This kind of closeness, built through time and presence rather than gear, made the final image feel more honest, more intimate. Once you master that skill, it expands naturally beyond birds—into mammals, reptiles, even insects. It’s a way of seeing, not just a way of shooting.
The Search for the Rare—and the Lessons of Disappointment
After photographing many of the local and familiar birds, my curiosity turned toward the more elusive species. I started planning trips, seeking out remote or specific habitats, tracking down birds I’d never seen before.
But often, these long efforts didn’t result in great photographs. The birds didn’t show up. Or if they did, the lighting was poor, the background distracting, or the moment just didn’t materialise. I returned from many of these trips without a single keeper shot.
It was disheartening. I began to ask myself: Whytravel so far just to come back with nothing? That’s when I began to reconsider what I was really looking for with my camera.
Rediscovering the Familiar
After a few too many empty-handed journeys, I shifted focus again—this time back to the birds close to home. I decided to return to the local wetlands and bushland with a new perspective and greater intentionality.
That’s when I started photographing ducks.
Ducks are everywhere. I used to overlook them, assuming I’d already “gotten” those shots. But I hadn’t. Not really. One morning, I found myself watching a hardhead duck bathed in perfect light. I crouched down, framed it tightly, and clicked. That photo remains one of my favourites to this day.
What started as an experiment quickly became a personal project. I began collecting duck portraits—each one crafted carefully, with attention to detail and emotion. Over time, I expanded this approach to other birds I’d previously overlooked: grebes, herons, moorhens, cormorants. I wasn’t just taking pictures anymore. I was telling quiet stories.
Looking Ahead: Embracing the Environment
Later in my photography journey, I began to move beyond just the bird itself. I started enjoying wider angles—photographing not only the subject but the environment it lives in. These images feel more narrative, more immersive. You don’t have to be extremely close to the bird, but the environment becomes more demanding. Light, habitat, background—all need to work in harmony.
That’s a topic I’ll dive into more in the future posts. But for now, let’s enjoy these portraits of everyday birds—captured with patience, respect, and a deep appreciation for the wildlife that shares our local spaces.
Among Australia’s most captivating birds, the Shining Flycatcher (Myiagra alecto) lives up to its name in every way—especially the male, whose deep, metallic-blue plumage can appear almost liquid in the right light. This iridescence, however, is a blessing and a curse for photographers. The brilliant sheen reflects so much light that exposing for the shiny parts throws the rest into shadow, while exposing for the darker areas causes the highlights to blow out completely. Capturing them well is not just a matter of luck—it’s a true test of timing, patience, and lighting conditions.
Fascinating Facts About the Shining Flycatcher 📸 1. Iridescent Males Only the male Shining Flycatcher sports the dazzling, metallic blue-black plumage. This glossy sheen is not a pigment, but a result of structural colouration—microscopic structures in the feathers reflect light in a way that creates that shimmering effect.
🧡 2. Subtle Females In contrast, the female is chestnut brown with a white underside, a classic example of sexual dimorphism. Her more muted colours help her stay hidden while nesting.
🌿 3. Mangrove Specialist They are most often found in mangroves, wetlands, and tropical woodlands across northern Australia, New Guinea, and parts of Southeast Asia. Their preference for dense, tangled vegetation can make them very difficult to spot.
🎶 4. Not-so-Vocal Unlike many flycatchers, the Shining Flycatcher has a soft, whistling call and isn’t particularly vocal, especially during nesting. This can make them hard to locate if you’re relying on sound alone.
🐛 5. Insect Hunters They are insectivores, catching insects mid-air or picking them off leaves. They use quick, darting flights to grab prey and often return to the same perch.
🪺 6. Tiny Nests, Big Effort Their cup-shaped nests are built with spider webs and plant fibers, placed on branches over water. The location provides both camouflage and protection from ground predators.
My first encounter with this species was in the mangroves near Cairns on an overcast day—a stroke of luck, as the soft light let me capture the full range of plumage detail without harsh shadows or overblown highlights. Unfortunately, my next sightings, on Groote Eylandt, were less fruitful. Between the tangled environment and strong tropical sun, it was nearly impossible to get a clean, well-exposed frame.
Then came the moment I’ll never forget.
It was storm season, and a low-pressure system was sweeping across the heart of Groote Eylandt when I came across a Shining Flycatcher nest delicately balanced on a branch above a narrow creek. At first, the weather seemed far from ideal for photography—but I soon realized I was positioned right in the eye of the system, where the winds drop to almost zero. The result? Calm, quiet conditions with soft, overcast skies and a gentle drizzle—creating the kind of evenly diffused light wildlife photographers dream of. I spent the next five days quietly observing the nest and the flycatcher family as they carried out their daily routine.
To avoid disturbing such a sensitive stage in the birds’ life cycle, I positioned myself at a respectful distance, concealed behind a cluster of trees. From there, I gradually managed to capture intimate portraits of both the male and female Shining Flycatchers.
Female shining flycatcher
Myiagra alecto
Male shining flycatcher
Myiagra alecto
Without a tripod, I had to handhold my camera, bracing myself against a tree trunk for support. The adult birds returned to the nest to feed the chick roughly once every 15 minutes—a rhythm dictated by the time it took them to hunt down and catch suitable insects in the dense surrounding habitat. That meant when birds came to feed the chick I had, at best, just a few seconds to get the shot—if I missed it, I’d have to wait another full quarter hour for the next chance. After 45 minutes of holding the camera ready—often without taking more than one or two frames—fatigue started to set in. My arms were aching, and opportunities were slipping by simply because I was knackered after holding the camera that long.
One afternoon, the female flew in to feed the chick and struck a pose I could never have anticipated. She spread her wings and opened her beak—completely silent, as though in mid-song—and for a split second, the underside of her wings and the vivid red of her open mouth were perfectly framed and lit. My position was just right. Everything—the tail, the wing, the beak, and the chick—fell into the same focal plane. I didn’t even have to think. I just pressed the shutter.
By the next day, the chick had grown finer feathers, now with a soft brown tone. I watched the male stand over the nest in the rain, shielding the chick with his body. In this image, you can see that the chick has already developed some fine brown feathers.
Then came the turning point. When I arrived, I saw not one, but two female-coloured birds on the nest. It took me a moment to realise—the chick had moulted into its juvenile plumage, identical to the adult female’s. (Young males and females look the same until the male eventually transforms into the striking metallic black-and-blue adult.)
Soon after, I watched the chick flap its wings and climb out of the nest. It perched on the same branch and beat its wings—its very first flight attempt! Minutes later, I saw it launch itself into the air, wobbling to a tree nearby. Both parents were close, offering food and encouragement, alternating feeding and letting the chick rest between movements. I stood there in awe, witnessing not just the growth, but the moment life literally took off.
What caught my attention was that it had no tail at all. Until now, I’d always assumed that tailless birds I’d seen had somehow lost their feathers, but this encounter taught me something new. It turns out that fledglings often leave the nest before their tails have fully developed, and they grow in just a few days after fledging. Witnessing this rare stage of life was a reminder of how much there is still to learn, even after years in the field.
That evening, as dusk settled in, I left quietly and never saw the family again. But that’s exactly as it should be—a sign of success. A life begun. A story completed. And for me, a rare and personal insight into the wild world I feel so privileged to document. These photos, now among the most treasured in my collection, serve as a lasting memory of a journey I was lucky to be part of—and will never forget.
As a wildlife photographer, few birds enchant me quite like the fairywrens. They’re small, quick, and full of personality—flitting about in a blur of blues, reds and soft earth tones. Capturing them through the lens is a challenge I never tire of, and in this article, I want to share five of my favourite species I’ve had the joy of photographing in the wild.
Tiny Comedians of the Bush
Before I dive into the individual species, let me tell you a bit about fairywrens in general. These birds are bursting with energy, constantly on the move—darting between twigs, bouncing through grass, and flicking their tails upright like tiny peacocks. Despite their bold colours, they’re not always easy to spot. They’re some of the smallest birds in Australia, weighing just 8 to 13 grams—about the same as a $2 coin.
Fun Facts
Male fairywrens sing to eggs before they hatch—scientists think it helps chicks recognise their parents’ calls.
Fairywrens are cooperative breeders—offspring from previous years often stay around to help raise their younger siblings.
They have surprisingly large brains for their body size, which helps with their complex social lives.
Fairywrens live in tight-knit family groups, with one male often surrounded by a harem of several females and juvenile helpers. They’re incredibly social and seem to gossip nonstop in high-pitched chatter. Photographing them is like trying to snap a photo of a ping-pong ball in a wind tunnel—but that’s part of the fun.
And here’s a cheeky fact: male fairywrens are notorious flirts. During breeding season, they’ve been known to pluck bright flower petals and present them to females as part of their courtship rituals. It’s the bird equivalent of showing up with a bouquet.
🐦Red-backed Fairywren (Malurus melanocephalus)
Red-backed Fairywren
Male
Red-backed Fairywren
Female
I came across this pair of red-backed fairywrens in the grasslands of northern Queensland. The male, in the first image, looks like a spark in motion—jet-black plumage set off by that brilliant crimson patch across his back. He was darting from stalk to stalk, tail cocked, putting on a bold display.
The female, shown in the second image, was nearby and much harder to spot. Her warm, cinnamon-brown feathers let her disappear into the dry vegetation—a perfect example of nature’s camouflage at work. Despite the differences in appearance, they moved as a pair, calling softly to one another as they foraged.
🐦Superb Fairywren (Malurus cyaneus)
Superb Fairywren
Male
Superb Fairywren
Female
In the above image, a male superb fairywren stands proudly amongst a burst of wildflowers. That vivid cobalt blue never fails to catch the eye—especially when set against the delicate petals of native blooms. His upright tail, cocked like a tiny banner, is typical of the species and part of what makes them so endearing to watch (and photograph!).
Although they look regal, they’re full of mischief—often seen bouncing around your ankles in campsites or picnic areas, barely stopping long enough for a photo. I spent a good half hour following this one as he zipped from bloom to bloom, his tail flicking constantly like he had something to prove.
But don’t let their tiny size and sweet songs fool you — fairy-wrens have scandalous secrets. Female superb fairywren, while males strut around in their dazzling electric-blue plumage to woo a mate, females are quietly rewriting the rules of bird relationships. Despite forming long-term pair bonds, many females sneak off to mate with other, often flashier males. The result? A nest full of chicks that may look nothing like the loyal partner helping to feed them. It’s the avian version of a daytime soap opera — complete with drama, deception, and a surprisingly progressive approach to parenting. In the world of wrens, fidelity is optional, but teamwork is everything.
🐦Purple-backed Fairywren (Malurus assimilis)
Male and female Purple-backed Fairywren playfully perched on a branch
This next moment was a delight to witness. A pair of purple-backed fairywrens, playfully perched on a thin branch, seemed almost to pose for the shot. The male, with his subtle violet sheen, moved with a mix of elegance and energy. The female, less flashy but just as cheeky, kept close by.
These birds are great fun to watch—they’re full of curiosity, often hanging upside-down from a twig or bouncing between branches like feathered acrobats. They never sit still for long, and that’s half the challenge when photographing them.
🐦Variegated Fairywren (Malurus lamberti)
Variegated Fairywren
Female
Variegated Fairywren
Male
The variegated fairywren in this photo was spotted early one morning, flitting through dense undergrowth. He paused just long enough among the leaves for me to frame this shot. His plumage is a painter’s palette—blue crown, chestnut shoulders, and a black chest.
These birds are wonderfully adaptable, found in all sorts of bushland from coastal scrub to mountain forests. The males are particularly territorial—often seen puffing themselves up and doing their best “tough guy” impression against rivals twice their size. All show, no bite—but very entertaining.
🐦White-winged Fairywren (Malurus leucopterus)
Male and female White-winged Fairywrens playfully perched on a branch
This image captures a pair of white-winged fairywrens, engaging in playful behaviour on a low branch. The male, with his striking all-over royal blue plumage and brilliant white wings, looked almost surreal against the arid backdrop. The female, in soft sandy hues, was just as active, hopping from twig to twig.
These birds often live in dry inland areas, and spotting them feels like stumbling upon a little secret in the desert. Their social groups are full of chatter and high-speed chases—like watching a feathered soap opera unfold in miniature.
Final Thoughts
Fairywrens might be tiny, but they pack a huge amount of character into a few grams of fluff and feathers. Photographing them takes patience, a quick shutter, and often a sense of humour. But once you’ve spent time watching a family group bounce and chirp their way through the bush, it’s hard not to fall in love with them.
There’s still one dazzling species that’s eluded my lens so far: the Splendid Fairywren. With its electric blue plumage and outback charisma, it’s right at the top of my must-photograph list. I can’t wait to one day share those images and stories with you—hopefully from deep in the red heart of Australia.
Let me know what you think in the comments—and if you’ve had your own fairywren encounters and which species is your favourite? I’d love to hear your stories.
Masked Lapwings (often called plovers) are a fascinating paradox of the bird world—part drama, part delight. As a wildlife photographer, I’ve long been drawn to their unapologetically loud personalities, their fierce devotion to parenthood, and the irresistible cuteness of their chicks. Over the past year, I dedicated myself to capturing this unique species in all its forms—through rain, wind, noise, and dive-bombing attacks.
Adult Southern Masked Lapwing with visible spurs
Regional Differences and That Curious Mask
Not all Masked Lapwings look the same. There are two main races: the northern race (Vanellus miles miles), common in northern Australia, and the southern race (Vanellus miles novaehollandiae), found across the south and east. One key difference is the plumage—southern birds sport distinctive black shoulder patches, while northern birds lack these entirely, giving them a slightly cleaner look across the wings.
Another fascinating feature is the bird’s namesake “mask”—the bright yellow wattles that drape from the face. At a glance, they look ornamental, almost cartoonish. But during preening, I managed to capture a rare moment: a bird lifting its mask in the wind, revealing that these wattles are actually made of bare, flexible skin. They move and bend, and their expressiveness seems to change depending on the bird’s mood or motion, adding a whole new layer to their personality.
Adult Northern Masked Lapwing with the flapping mask
Masters of Defence
Masked Lapwings are known for their fearless defence tactics. Despite not building nests—simply laying their eggs directly on open ground—they become obsessive guardians the moment the eggs are placed. What they lack in architectural skill, they make up for in vigilance. The adult birds will patrol the area relentlessly, ready to defend their offspring from any perceived threat.
And they don’t care how big the intruder is. These birds have been recorded attacking everything from photographers to emus, Australia’s largest bird, and even airplanes, which is why they’re considered a hazard around aerodromes. Watch them chase emus
and a photographer trying to get too close
They are equipped for combat, too—each adult has a yellow spur on its wing, which acts as a natural weapon during aerial swoops and strikes. I captured a close-up image of this feature, and it’s a vivid reminder that these birds aren’t bluffing when they come at you, screeching and flapping.
Photographing the adults has been just as thrilling as challenging. One of my favourite moments was catching an adult Lapwing landing on the beach in a pose that looked like a mid-air dance—wings outstretched, body poised, almost balletic. In another photo, I managed to capture a bird in full flight, yellow wattles flaring and spurs also visible in mid-flight. These are birds of contrast: graceful in motion, yet unapologetically confrontational when they feel threatened.
Masked Lapwing
in flight
Masked Lapwing
Landing on the beach
Fluffballs on Patrol
Despite the noisy, aggressive nature of the adults, their chicks are pure joy—tiny, fluffy, and endlessly curious. They roll around in the grass like wind-up toys and look more like plush animals than wild birds. I had always dreamed of photographing them up close, but early attempts ended in failure, with protective parents launching immediate attacks any time I stepped too near. After several such encounters, I nearly gave up.
But in 2024, I turned that dream into a personal project. I committed to capturing images of the chicks, no matter how long it took. I monitored a returning pair closely and waited patiently through two separate nesting attempts. Each time, the challenge began anew: how to get close without setting off the alarm.
Approaching the chicks took days of slow, careful observation. If you try to get near too fast, you’re guaranteed a noisy and sometimes physical response. I had to earn their trust, moving closer each day until I could photograph the young ones without causing a commotion. Some days were overcast and gloomy, others rainy and wet. There were days I found myself belly-crawling through wet grass only to find the birds too far away. It required patience, timing, and a lot of mud.
But the reward was more than worth it. I documented their journey from tiny fluffballs to young, feathered juveniles, watching the transformation week by week. Their personalities started to emerge, and I like to believe the parents slowly began to recognize me—not as a threat, but as a respectful observer.
Below, you’ll find some of the results from this long-term project—images from the 2024 season that I’m incredibly proud of. They reflect not just the beauty and humour of the Lapwing family but also the patience and persistence required to work with wild animals on their terms.
I’m hopeful the same pair will breed again this year, and if they do, I’ll be ready. Maybe—just maybe—I’ve become their unofficial family photographer.
Until 2024, I believed I was “just an amateur” — someone who took photos for the love of wildlife but never quite dared to think they were on par with the images that win international photography contests. I used to draw a mental line between “my photos” and “their photos” — the ones you see on magazine covers or award sites. This year, that line blurred. Or rather, it disappeared.
The Leap Into the Competitive World
This was the first year I submitted my work to international photo contests. It meant stepping far outside my comfort zone. Each contest came with its own set of submission rules — whether it was about the maximum age of the photo, allowed editing levels, or color accuracy. Learning these details felt like navigating a new language.
One of the trickiest gray areas I encountered was understanding the limits of editing, particularly the acceptable degree of object removal. What counts as a “minor” object? A distracting branch? A blade of grass across the subject’s eye? Every contest seems to have its own interpretation. That’s part of the learning curve I’m still riding.
A Shift in Mindset
I owe a huge thank you to Sergey Puponin. He was the one who first looked at my work and said, “You belong there.” Without his encouragement, I might never have taken that first step. But I did — and I realized something powerful. I’m not just submitting to the world’s top photography contests. I am part of them now.
This shift in mindset is deeply validating. It takes time to fully accept that your creative ideas are not only enough but can be embraced by international judges, respected peers, and upcoming photographers who might one day look to my work as a benchmark.
Highlights from My First Year of Contests
Here’s a quick look at how my first year in the contest scene unfolded:
🐦 35AWARDS Theme Contest: Wildlife – Birds
This was the very first contest I entered. Out of 4,269 photographersfrom 114 countries, I placed 12th. It was an incredible feeling — not just being among the top results, but knowing I was judged alongside such a diverse and talented global crowd. To view the best photos, visit the following link.
🦋 35AWARDS Theme Contest: Winged Insects
This time, I reached the Top 1% of 3,941 participants with a total of 14,815 submissions. My photos didn’t get lost in the crowd — they stood out, and that meant everything to me. To view the best photos, visit the following link.
🌿 Nature Photography Contest 2024
Here, my photo passed the preselection phase — an important step that filters out AI-generated images, overly edited work, and other non-compliant entries. Only winners are published, so I don’t know my final standing, but making it through preselection in a high-caliber contest is an accomplishment I’m proud of.
🐦 Birdlife Australia Photography Awards 2024
A photo series I submitted here was previously featured in my blog >>link<<. As a testament to the unique narrative captured in these moments, I submitted this series of images to Birdlife Australia for their annual wildlife photography competition. The sequence of the Osprey and the Silver Gull, with its mix of humor, elegance, and raw survival instincts, seemed to resonate with the judges. I was thrilled to learn that the series had made it to the final round of judging. While it ultimately didn’t win, the recognition itself was a rewarding acknowledgment of the story the images told. Below is a screen copy of the email I received from Birdlife Australia:
I reached the final round of judging — again, an impressive milestone given the competition.
David Stowe won in the portfolio category, but the feedback I got was humbling and reinforced my passion for wildlife photography. Sometimes, the joy isn’t just in winning, but in sharing a story that resonates with others — and in this case, even the journey to the final round was a victory in its own right. That said, next time, I’ll be back to claim my prize!
🦜 Bird Photographer of the Year (BPOTY) 2025
This is perhaps the most prestigious bird photography contest in the world. It takes six months to review entries. While I won’t know my ranking until November 2025, I was thrilled to receive a request for the RAW file of one of my submissions — a promising sign that it stood out.
🌍 10th 35AWARDS International Photography Award
This was the highlight of my year. Out of 112,771 photographers who submitted nearly 473,000 photos, I was selected among the Top 50 Wildlife Photographers of the Year.
That number still blows my mind. To be ranked so highly among thousands of breathtaking images is a surreal, deeply affirming experience. It tells me that every moment spent in nature, every early morning, and every patient hour waiting for a perfect shot — it all matters. It all adds up. To view the best photos, visit the following link.
Looking Forward
Next year, I’ll continue submitting, learning, and pushing myself to grow. Wildlife photography is an endless pursuit — a mix of gear, technique, patience, and the unpredictable magic of being at the right place at the right time.
To anyone out there wondering whether their work is “good enough” — let this be a nudge. Take the step. Submit. Learn. Improve. Someone out there might be waiting to see your perspective on the world.
And who knows? Maybe soon you’ll be among them — or rather, us.
