He hits the cul-de-sac like a pride of panthers, wishing for the tools hidden beneath the godfather's cape. The atmosphere accepts him; the rushing rain feels cold against past and future windows. To observe is to obscure, he thinks. With a keen whisper, bald eagle meets mouse on the field of champions. To the right, a dandy discovers his futile ancestry and scampers into the wood. "Would you excuse me?" he says to the crow, who replies with a flourish. "Oh how I relish your inky visage," he says, lighting on a stone. The moss a cushion. The sky a fortress. Pierced by crow's bill and villain's tremor, the wind glazes the spaces between the needles.