The wind has blown owls from the treetops. With a broom I shall sweep corpses of mice from the steps. And in the morning certainly a dog will run up from the woods. Wolves leap into mist. The wind bring owls, sit them on trees.
Mice come to the steps to die.
The sky is full of birds, slowly falling. On leafy parachutes descending. The sky is a great vault, painted with a motley fresco, painted with a bird's wing, painted by a master-bird, a master of simple stock, of sparrow stock. The ground is a great mosaic floor full of cages of fine wire. Full of birds in cages of fine wire.