Would that I could walk backwards, and see the birds that follow me. Or, perhaps, ask them to teach me what they know. That I could fly like them, out this window, out this world; that I could fly like them, out that window, into that world. That I will, one day. That I should now. Sickening, to distraction, then: a pipe, a room; an elephant, a fox; longeing (not longing!) the foal, grafting lemon and lime. Now: a farce, a circus; a donkey, a mule; dogs walking their owners, fruit harvesting the farm workers. That I could watch a flock of blackbirds hovering around my head, dispersing and converging with the ebb and flow of my thoughts. That I could watch a flock of blackbirds, hovering next to a head, wondering, “is it worth it to be here at all?”, then merging into a single entity, at the discovery that it is. That, that, that, that. That we might wonder why men fight; perhaps they want to be free? That we might observe birds fight, even though we think they are free.