I glanced briefly to the right and then flew around the curve without even pausing at the stop sign. Horns erupted behind me, splitting the stoplight-studded night. I lurched as my tires leapt over the curb, and then I was barrelling along the sidewalk. It was only chance that I didn't run down someone's azaleas or strip my rear-view mirror off on a lamppost. A siren's wail rose from the darkness, and I prayed that - although he'd obviously seen it all - the cop wouldn't pull me over.

I woke up on my back with my hands hooked behind my head, like I was sunbathing or submitting to a search. My elbows felt cold, and I buried my arms again beneath the blankets.

A tree sang to me yesterday. ("What?" asked David. "Sang," I repeated.) I stopped and eyed it curiously. Around me, people moved back and forth on the paths, tracing their own straight lines from A to B, going where people go at 6:15. I crept up, but when I stood beneath the tree it fell silent.

Looking up, though, I saw them - the pale bellies of dozens of small plain birds. They looked so vulnerable and beautiful, with tiny pointed beaks and soft feathers underneath, only a thin cover protecting those fragile hearts. A few of them fluttered - or fell, really - from one branch to another; others hardly moved, hoping no one would notice them. I waited.

Eventually, slowly, they began again, one tentative chirrup at a time, until the tree was atwitter once more. It sounded like cocktail talk, bird gossip: frivolous and urgent simultaneously.