Out of the corner of my eye, I spy a giant bird. An iron bird. A giant orange iron bird. It grasps me with one eye. Its eye is a bandolier. Bird in a refrain keeps its bandolier on me. I don’t want to sing. The bird nods like a friend whose attention is elsewhere. I dig iron crumbs out of my pocket. I wonder if time will turn birdie green with rust. Maybe the sky isn’t locked. Maybe the bird likes German porn. I reach the corner of 11th and Hoyt. A white VW van slows down. I wave my arm at the van. It creates breeze. I am a conductor. I raise my batons and the traffic around me swirls and arpeggiates. I pull the song note by note into being. I eat rust. The bird swallows chords in dainty green sips.