In early morning he gulps down starry eyes. The tastiest part of night’s face, cooled upon high pillows. He alights upon the bed of night and pecks, pecks. When he flies, he flies through solitude. As if through a cavern into another cavern, which goes with him, eternally renewed. When he flies low, his wings imitate the voice of the wind, scythes. As if the wind rushed from the mountain. As if the scythe was slicing the air. Sometimes he flies with another. Even then his flight dives into orbits of solitude. She who follows him remains in the quiet distance. Their feathers don’t touch. In the space of two circles they fly. He sings in three ways. In three different languages. All are meant only for himself. For his own ear, his own conversation. He mocks not, bird of hooks. If he mocks, he mocks only himself, his own voices, the interwoven speech of meandering calls. When he flies low, there is a glimmering upon his feathers the black defiance of the realm of mystery.