BRICK HOUSES, BIG FIRE ENGINES, little red wagons . . . all serve as suitable camouflage for flight through your bucolic environs. When I'm hard-pressed, I'll hijack a robin's breast.
I'm as huge as the Tetons and diminutive as a tab of acid. I can crush your city and you in it, or, if I get in your blood, mutate a million little mes and colonize your mind. I never promised you a rose garden, and you don't bring me flowers any more. I walk alone through the valley of the dolls without a mother's little helper. Whatever happened to Rosemary's baby? Maybe someday his name will be in lights.
'Scuze me while I kiss the sky. . . .