A flock of black birds swoop by my window, North, then West, as if circling my apartment swooshing around the house, a tornado of playful joy. Their shadows would dance on the carpet, captivate in the morning light if it were morning but it’s afternoon when the sun doesn’t reach in. I am sitting across from the middle section of the window. It’s a triptych, sectioning off the view to the East: | Road || House || Trees | A single black bird flies toward me it flies for me in the middle from above the house plummeting always in sight always in the center of the center section of the triptych it approaches the window. Its last flaps until with the momentum of a rollercoaster, all its intensity and thrill, and the grace of a swan though somehow not a swan, not a rollercoaster, it shoots up always in sight, always front and center. Commands my attention with its purposeful glide like a resolute gaze until out of view. Maybe up to the sky, maybe over the house. My what a view. I see stars.