Eventually I sleep. Exhaustion wins. I dream dreams of insects burrowing, of false teeth, of rootless trees falling sequentially, each in a different direction, their trunks like fingers pointing, accusing. I don’t dream of him at all. Though it’s dark still, at least one bird is up. I think it’s a magpie from the sounds it makes. It has chosen a branch on the laurel tree just outside our bedroom window. It sits there and complains. Even birds have complaints. There’s never enough bugs to go round. The sky is too low. Eggs aren’t what they once were. The oppressive conformity of flocking. Every four seconds — I count — the bird sounds the same shrill, harrying call. I wouldn’t call it a song. Like this: One, two, three, four, to weet, to weet, to woo. One, two, three, four, to weet, to weet, to woo. I try for a while to slip back to sleep, but the bird is too damn loud and too persistent. It has to have its say. I give up. I crane my neck and lift the blinds, but I can’t see it out the window.
