Ever since I’ve been typing nude, the bird has been watching me. He sits upon an upper middle bough of the small pine outside the window and stares in. O.K. I may be wrong about this. He’s sitting there, all right, but I don’t know that he’s a he. Hopkins, when he returns next week, if he comes, can probably tell me. Hopkins knows birds. Whether Hopkins knows sex or not, manly fellow that he is, remains up in the air, but this is Hopkins’s property, Hopkins’s turf, so he, ever precise and always fastidious, should be familiar with the flora and fauna of these parts. Me, silly city girl that I am, barely knows crow from camel. My bird, Waldo as I’ve come to think of him, is earnest as all get out, but he’s also pretty and petite with a gruff perkiness to him. I like the pale red ruff of feathers beneath his small round head, the soft curve of throat to breast, and the efficient thrust of shape stillness gives his supple body. If I stop typing long enough to truly watch him, he flicks his sleek black tail, opens his stubby beak, and speaks. Pep, pep, pep, he goes. Pep, pep, pep, pep as if to mimic the sounds of my Corona Four, as if to spur me into action. Pep, pep, pep, and sometimes p’Wing. I may be wrong about him being male, and I may be wrong about him watching me simply because I’m naked, but I know I’d better get busy or I’ll never finish this in time, and Hopkins will be most angry, and then ... well, we won’t go into that.

Pinica mocks my curiosity, my attention, but I pay her no mind. The blue-black creature is like nothing I’ve ever seen: smoothly weighty, ruggedly precise, solidly implacable, as opposite of us as anything anywhere, and yet, now that the keeper tickles her belly, having fed white feed through her strange slim mouth, she speaks to me, spits of perfect sound, mysterious yet familiar, measured, syncopated and exciting. I must know her. I must know what she is saying. She’s calling to me. I know it.

Pinica says, “Let’s fuck. Come on, it will only take a second. Fly into me and seed me with frenzy, frenzy me with seed.” Her body flits and twitches as she squawks and twitters, but I ignore her. She shows the tinge of pink beneath her wings, then whirls and flies away. She’ll be back, but for the moment I can concentrate.

I listen and listen and listen until at last I know I’m on the verge of knowing.

It’s so hot up here. The pines shade the cabin, but still it’s hot. Imagine how hot it must be in the city with Hopkins churning his deals, rounding up his backers, making his money hand over fist. Naturally I took my clothes off. It’s not as if there’s anyone to see me. Anyone but the bird, that is. We’re miles from anywhere. Nothing but pine trees and acre after acre of beautiful, wildflower filled fields ... and it’s not as if I’m bad to look at, myself, but in truth before I made myself bare, shucking the linen skirt and gauzy blouse, skinning the silky chemise, the silkier scanties, I wasn’t paying a bit of attention to the bird. The stuffy Emerson poems Hopkins left me put aside, I stripped and sat and started typing. The bird may have been watching me all along. Who is to say? Pep, pep, pep, Waldo goes. Pep, pep. Pep, pep, pep. His light little noise knocks against my nakedness and makes me shiver.

I’m outside now, surrounded by gardens of softest grass. I’ve taken the Corona out, too, and set it upon the rickety little lawn table, but so far not much progress. Sunlight streams through trees, and the breeze nuzzles wild corymbs and flaps the flimsy paper. I almost expect these few words I’ve typed to fly off, to alight upon flowers like little butterflies. Flights of fancy. Maybe that’s what I should call this. My bird, by the way, is no longer on his perch, no longer watching me, no longer cocking his head from time to time, flicking his black tail. Where’s Waldo? I miss him.

Also, I’m a little worried about this chair. The slats, rough, weathered planks of raw pine, could lead to a splinter in my bottom. Ha, maybe my friend the bird could use his stubby beak to pry out any sliver of stray wood which might work its way into my flesh. Would you do that for me, Mister Bird? Or is your beak shaped all wrong? I’m sure it’s good for cracking seeds and crunching juicy bugs, but what about extracting pieces of bark from a poor girl’s bottom? But that’s right — my bird is gone. Best, probably, if I don’t move too much; if I just sit here and type quietly. Innocently. Pep, pep, pep.

Darn! A mosquito bit me. Just now. Ow! But typing it doesn’t make the hurt go ‘way. On my left breast, a thumb’s width from the nipple, the swelling begins. At least I swatted the sucking creature, and now to show for it: a blood red stain and small strings of oozy bug remains. And the rising bump. Darn, darn, darn! I hate mosquito bites. I hate the way they itch, and I hate that I’m helpless not to scratch and rub. Type, type, type, that’s the cure. But it isn’t. I’m too itchy to type. I must rub it, rub the bump. Hm, two nipples on one breast. My rubbing has even made a second halo almost as round and puffy as the real one, but more red than pink. If Hopkins were here, perhaps he could do something. If only Hopkins could be as clever and kind in his reality as in his — never mind. Suffice it to say, if his spit didn’t soothe me, maybe his sucking would.