I leave the fan off tonight, motor-wind absent. Worked beak-words outside, beyond blinds, beneath the moon-patrol between dusk and dawn. Devil's hour; the quiet, decadent, dangerous time of night when the restless lay and think. Warbles and calls. I wish to be them. The nightingales who nest in the dark vitality of spring evenings. I want to be the crow greeting hung-over, early-waking men on the verge of panic-ruin and collapse, staring from windowside branches during the building-blocked sunrise. Seven o'clock eclipse.
This is the chirping of birds at three in the morning.
