My high priestess in the grass, for me it is enough that the sparrows chant in the high hedge. Brown, like the ground, and gray, like this winter sky, each day they are dying, dying, and each day they fly. Such offerings you bring! Your small sacrifices fall to tooth and claw; bleed red as spring. Such an accidental magic to be an intimate of air, a certain hollowness of bone, wings curved like light-- each flight a prayer.