They'll haul away at a top'sl rope, type at ninety words per minute, know before I do the places to scratch. When large music pounds, they captain the brass, fling themselves at Rachmoninov, fondle my hair, tick fences, dance. Leashed this while to my humorless arms, awkward still at the posture of prayer, flailing about they tell my story. I sense in their nature they're yearning to fly like bodiless wings. I will free them some day.© Barry Spacks