I spend the day tightening my fingers in the Greek way, in the Hipponax manner, putting my hands where they don’t belong, probing the guts of birds, nattering about the future. I am so tired. My nation has fallen on evil times. All my dark skinned brothers and sisters are exhausted. My crippled pals feel despair. A fingernail in the crow’s guts tells me there will be more fear. I trace a bilious organ of crow-ish appetite, read in Bird Braille there will be megalomania, corporate disdain, wars. Put your hand where it doesn’t belong. It’s a book you should know.