Regardless of where I, Leopold, go, what changes and reversals I experience there, and where the next place is (and howsoever I get there), there is still the page and what to do with it.

     As soon as it occurred to me to share that thought, I ceased to be alone. I mean some sketchy guy literally came up behind me, clearing his throat audibly, until I raised my hand without turning around to acknowledge his whateverness. But the man was unperturbed. He coughed again and began a waxy jousting straight away.

     "So you mean to tell me," he broached, "another day has gone by, and you're back at your desk, Sir Writer, struggling to find anything to tell, and thinking to yourself that the only way you'll get a thing done is if you do one page single spaced today, and then in another week finish her off with another page, and then post the result? You mean to say that unless you publish immediately, you feel as though the writing, nay, that's not the way to put it, it's that you simply can't write the thing that shall go in your book any other way?"

     "Thunderblast, you knave of words!" I cried.

     And why not call him Thunderblast, I thought, because I"m the decidermeister.

     But the narrative went nowhere! And I had taken a long walk, not realizing how long it was, and how much tick land it would take me through. A summer's day, five pounds lost only to be put on again at dinner! But what was Thunderblast doing with his binoculars?

     "What, pray, Thunderblast, are you doing with your binoculars? What sight do you see, that you will be able to describe to me, maybe, that I might, maybe, put it in my page of daring this day, as I scarce fear thee? But I shan't finish. Or even put a dash. I'll just conclude where I began. Being Sir Writer is hard, you know, and whatever do you spy through your old binoculars of quality, eh? What, pray, do you see, dear Thunderblast! I charge thee! Even unto false Renaissance phraseology! Speak!"

     "Birds!" burst he.

     And birds there were in the distance, distinguishable as such. But not having binoculars in hand, so-so.

     "Birds!" he bucked again. "A kingfisher where the kingfisher dwells. A turtle next in turtle habitat on a log in the stream, though not a bird. And the parting flight of, king's guess, a bald eagle! Confounded!"

     Hmm, I thought. Strange for but one bird to be stated at the start so boisterously, only to be the predecessor to the addendum of a turtle, and then a bald eagle whose likeness I might have rendered. And as the fellow stated, flying away withal. So prithee, or so please me, it went, or in passing, fairly swift.

     "Stop cogitating like a false, high-stationed wobbler!" broke Thunderblast. The man read my thoughts. He had the ability? No. But he gathered I was thinking, and had no trouble surmising the queer phraseology I was using, as it twisted my lips to think this way. But it was important to stay on topic.

     "Birds!" crabbed Thunderblast again. This time though he flashed his head around, winked, and eyed me keenly with mischief in his countenance. Clearly he had hoped to make me jump with his sudden cry.

     But I was not in the least taken in a startledom, and ripfast then he turned away, though I admit I couldn't help but think to meself, "By Hollychum! I'm onto the second page already! I can feel it in the numbers and letters!"

     "Thunderblast, let's have tea!" I roared.

     He paid me no mind. The birds had sucked him in like a lollipop. The binoculars had become part of his noodle head. His eyes, nose, cheeks, and jaw wagged lost in the plastic, metal, glass, and grease.

     The sun darted behind a thunderhead in the sky.

     "Thunderblast," I cried, "your binoculars have become a part of you, and no mistake! Leave off with the birds! You're in a fix, I can be sure, and if you don't manage to lose that tool of keen vision, you and I are liable never to have tea! And you are liable never to have tea with anyone henceforth! Or even tea on your own, in solitude, at a high table or a low one! With berries!!!"

     The ideas kept coming. I had to admit, the situation was grave. Thunderblast was in a liberal danger, and my horrible manner of speech couldn't be averted! The man must be saved! But the binoculars had meshed and molded into his large round head, like they were of the same clay, and very as though they were clay! What could I do! No tea! That was certain. I had to think clearly on this hot, sultry, summer's day, when there were birds here in and there, and breeze present and again. It was laborious and tragical! I shed a tear.

     And Thunderblast turned and said, "Sir Writer, I am sorry. My dear Leopold, I fear I'll be affixed to binoculars forevermore. I see birds right and left. One must accept what comes. Why don't you tell me a story? It shall help me grow accustomed to the new state of affairs, and to the Aves I see close up, however far away they are. Not to mention the double circle I see, which is like an eight filled in, after the mechanics of lenses that focus in and out on things in the distance. Lend me your aid!"

     He had put it fairly well for one so blockheady. I sighed. I looked about the woods. We verged on the edge of a stream, in a park surrounded by suburbia. I had known Thunderblast a long time. I had known him since the day he first called me Sir Writer. But my mind fogged at the thought. How long had I known Thunderblast really? And wasn't his name actually Jeffrey J. Floomique?

     I stepped forward and put my hand on Jeffrey's shoulder. "You know," I said, "no matter what happens, no matter if we made it onto a third page or what, we can always have tea. I had thought we could do so today. And we have seen birds. I should like to describe them, but in a way you mightn't expect, as I'm square-sure I couldn't describe them any other way but chummy."

     Jeffrey shook his head.

     "And as you suffer for want of a story, I will say this. Once upon a time there lived a small house. Wait. That's a mistake. I mean there lived a small man in a house the size of a tree. Wait. That's difficult. A man lived in a house. No. I don't like that beginning."

     Jeffrey nodded. "I like that one. Go on," he said.

     A light breeze blew. I looked past Jeffrey, to the thorny hill. Then, heedless of what came before, I said, "Whatever we are, whoever we wish to be, the man in the house stands in the middle. The sun rises and sets. People mill around. They count things. They move things around. They travel here and there. Aves of blue and white and gray dance in the sky. Cats run around. Deer stand and chew the leaves. A man looks through binoculars. His name is Jeffrey. He stands in the rain. He stands in the sun. He knows what there is. The sky a pale glow, what is there to know? What lies beyond the next hill? Footsteps. Footsteps."

     Suddenly Jeffrey convulsed, as he wrenched the binoculars from his body, zipflashed into a nuthatch or wren, and winkblasted quillgummied to the sky, down a tree, and invisibly through the oceans, in a breath. It happened so fast! And Jeffrey was gone!