Out in the field, some birds had made a circle. There were sparrows and ravens. Bluejays, a few gulls. The sun was telling a story that the trees drew deep into the dreaming earth. Some robins and a crow. Some doves. They made a circle, ragged, but true. I couldn’t understand it. Something was in the middle. They didn’t make a sound, but they seemed to be arranging themselves in some order, around it. A person wouldn’t have seen anything there. Because, you see, a person cannot see that with which they are seeing. Something there. In the middle. Of the circle. Blind as hell.