We laugh at the birds who only bow before an idol to pick at the rice. We take from the birds their wings and fly to the moon. We take from the stars their light and fill our rooms with genesis. Now there are no birds, no stars, only diagrams for understanding them. It is perfect, this sublime world we deify and trample. All is empty, waiting. I could paint the bush, but there is no fire left in it. We must be empty too, and wait to fill with weeds for the birds to return to with their nests and eggs and sunlight.