I was stolen, so I invented birds. In Chicago I didn’t know anybody so I was deliciously miserable—winter lonesomeness, multitudes, scarves. In a second hand store I was third, the little money I had belonged to the owner of rain, he watered his birds with it, the birds I made myself. There was a funeral and my soul was asleep, it dreamed of kites, which were trying so hard to be birds but just fell when I let them go. I was in a vault, a possession of the thief who stole me, he kept reaching in to sell another piece of me, I kept handing him birds, I’m sorry it was them or me. May you find me, may the birds forgive me.