Go my dear nightingale, fly away back to your world. I can see the day breaking through the distant horizon and I know it's time for you to go. The morning light always fills my veins with the silent poison that I have known better to detest. It's time for you to fly away, and it's time for me to hide.

Two-yards from my glass door there is a garden of high and dense foliage, and the dirt is rich and dark, and there is a birdbath in the house garden, and overhead a blue and tranquil sky-nearly everyday in the summer. Some of the plants grown two stores high, and we have two birdhouses in the garden, and food available, and a variety of small birds fly to and fro-that is, in and out, and lounge about in this free and natural zone, within Lima, Peru, a city of eighty-million people, and five million cars, and smog galore, and a polluted river that runs through the city.