He had sat 27 years, too long it seemed beneath the neon lighting of the over-heated office. When asked what he did, his face for some considerable time contorted in wild grimaces of pain and embarrassment – before he was able to answer, “at the tax authorities”. May He awaken him to the natural blossoming of man and beast and flowering fruits to still his, may one call it, conscience.

“They call it Steuer” he said “for it has to be supported – from mittelhochdeutsch stiure, althochdeutsch stiura = Stütze, Unterstützung; Steuer, eigentlich = Stütze, Pfahl, zu stauen, verwandt mit Steuer”, a fine etymology, for sure, but did nothing to heal his pain.

He was a good man; unaware, however, of Jünger’s Arbeiters.

“Why are some bits fard and some bits sunna and some bits mustahabb?”

he asked unwittingly.

“So she can do it fast when the croc appears, briskly when the northwind blows and at leisure then the sun appears.”

Three in all, one larger leading, but gathered in one étincelant flash, schillernd in the rare Med. sun of the north, three aras from that half of the island in Nusantara or from the Sud Americas perhaps, but in fact fleeing freely flightly from the local zoo on the Baltic. “An opening for sure” he said,”like that of Rilke’s caged panther”. “Yes! indeed, three muses, after we had talked yesterday of Sulaiman’s hudhud, the Wiedhopf might have called them up, its sister birds overreaching it in splendour and exoticism”. “But why, where’s the wisdom?” he asked. “O Wachet auf!” said Bach and see Him who inspired me.” So we woke up together and woke others – for the aras arrested us in time’s moment to point to the Greater Time of man and woman’s life, broke us out of the moving steel box as it kept aligned to the regulatory white road lines beside the Tierpark, stopped the car for just a moment, only to move on in the trafficked rush of forgetfulness.

The three could not now return to their aviary; would rather die in the snows of the north.