My friend, what do the birds say about the earth - do they tell you whether it is round or flat? Have they seen where it curves; have they seen where it ends? I have examined the old maps looking for answers but I can never understand them – you know how I feel about lines and calculations; I prefer the symbols at the bottom of the map that you can experience poetically – how a squiggle representing a river could mean “here there are snakes,” how the sign for a railroad looks like a place where a long tear was repaired with a set of stitches sewn into the old medieval parchment, a small gesture of reparation toward the animal onto whose hide the map was drawn. There are great dots for cities and smaller ones for towns and villages; this seems a very human way of looking at things. How would a bird draw a map, if it could; what would it mark there? “Here is the place where I find that golden flower whose nectar tastes so sweet; there is where I find the thistle and sunflower seeds I like to eat; that is the swamp where I can go when I am hungry for insects or mosquitoes. Here is the home I have in summer; here is the home I have in winter.” How human it is to have only one home, how small. If anyone knows where the world ends, it is the birds; they see everything. If we seek it, would they share that knowledge with us? If you knew where it was, would you tell? How many kinds of speech can you hear that do not yet have an alphabet? If you want to see what’s at the end of the world, take me with you; don’t be afraid to look over the edge - if you fall, I will jump into the monster’s mouth with you.