In the cool dark this morning there was a disturbance in one of the small trees a few feet from our open front window. A bird called out as if from a dream, in a tone of voice one doesn’t hear during the day. A minute or so later, a towhee spun a few notes, as if to say, I can’t see, but I can hear. This was repeated perhaps half a dozen times, then the singing subsided. All was calm again. I returned to my old weathered book, lit by a little lamp I found several years ago at a thrift store. And the words were suddenly birds, and I could see where one had slipped from its limb, as if long ago the typesetter had been tired at the end of a long day and his vision were blurred. There you are, little one, he said, be free. And he went home to be with his family.