Flock of hens loose on Hoover Street hid from me beneath a shrub. I learned what o-dark-thirty means. Sadness, I seem to have committed it to muscle memory, like how to walk on stilts. It leads me where it likes to go (ocean). The mountains propel me into the world of the eye. Grass waves its seeds, cows are brown holes in green stuff. I think I will walk into one of those holes in the world of the eye. The sound this makes will be a cow kind of sigh. “Happy” like a hovering gas. When I see that window I feel everything.