Some days you are the bird, and some days you are the statue. The question is how to move between the two forms inconspicuously.

How to fold the wings, and place them like a handkerchief in your black tuxedo and sit still under a revolving ceiling fan.

As sweat pours down your face like summer rain, you don't move your eyes, you watch that twitching toe in your shoes that wants to dance salsa.

But then a day will come, you won't know when or how beforehand, when you will say to yourself suddenly, "I have to leave on that airplane."

To where? Havana perhaps, where they drive old cars and splashes of falling plaster decorate the building facades like confetti. Perhaps one has to travel, almost fly, so far,

To arrive at this feeling for gauzy rhythm to seductively move, after standing in the wings for all those days when you are the statue, towards these days when you are the bird.