A single bird, flying, leaves a thin keening sound in its wake. It's the sound a needle makes, pricking and de-pricking itself, leaping up and back through a foaming sea of pebbly linen (hurtling dolphins plump the swells), or the song the cicada might make if you edited out its glistening pauses and silken throbbings. Every glass eye in the office building follows the bird's trajectory; every leathery ear sizzles after the gliding sound. Some of the sojourners can't go back to their screens after so much rapier bird-flight. Others re-bury themselves quickly in woolly text, glad for the final fly-by of the too-vectoring bird.
