14 June 2007. Warm morning, dusty blue sky, cool shadows along edges of the street. "Das ist Werner," the early voice, as if from some secret service operation on the Eastern Front, low, gravelly--understated but firm. The kind of voice that gets you in trouble--or already has...eternity and a day.
Under the Sallyport, middle of old dorm block. Darting in and out along dark brick walls, perched for a moment on the even darker molding above. A dusky orange with blackish hood, sash dropping just below the eye, another over the shoulder, as if to hold in place the taut black wings. Alert, none too pleased--he disdains the attention. But it can't be helped--we notice everything. Gnarly bark of old sycamore, wide-branching ash and elm...the expanse of lawn, Portland green, two hazy tracks disappearing into the gloom, and a tiny white garden chair, seen from afar, something dark blue draped over its back...
No telling here, the guests have gone, scattered home, all far flung...
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