The Conference of the Birds: A Novel Hardcover - 2005

The window is dirty. Soot has mottled it so that it resembles a topographical map of a region of hills. Rain has caused the soot to run in places, creating rivers or gullies. Raindrops themselves, bearers of the city's detritus, have left faint pockmarks, as though long ago a war had been fought here. Shelling. Death. Verdun. The Western Front. One's imagination could run wild. Don't. Stop. Go back. Nothing wild here. Wild is the city, the world, the wind. Here is cultivation. Here is human possibility. Go back. Stop. Gently, so that even ”human possibility“ is stopped, so that even stopping is stopped.

The landscape of war is deposited on the window's outside. On the pane's inside, particles of dust and faint angular streaks where some window washer years ago used a dirty squeegee. Also, dapples of grease, like settling mist, as though grease has been in the air of the place.

I reach for a scrap of torn-up newspaper. I feel the air rustle against the insides of my fingers as I extend my arm. I feel my fingertips as they land, gentle as a mosquito on skin, on the pile of newsprint squares. My thumb and two fingers pinch the top sheet, which like something hypnotized slides into their grip. Gently, cautiously, they lift the single sheet. With any less pressure it would flutter away. My right arm reaches for the bottle of window cleaner. The solution is pale, diluted, watery. One doesn't waste Windex just as one doesn't waste newspaper. There's no need. Need is elsewhere. Need is a poem, or need has no name. Stop. Gently. Go back.