The sky is an open door, painted blue and looking bright through well-lit window panes.
It looks even more strongly outside.

People swarm around in dovey droves, trying to outdo gods with a football and tickets. In sixth grade, the doves played hackysack and sold Icees.
I ran with an egg in a spoon, slippery eels in my veins, and I ran faster thus. “Don’t drop it! Ohmigosh!” Then, suddenly, a silver bullet laced with artificed intelligence struck my temple, pounding, pounding
POUNDING
It was then that I realized that no one was purely a bird.
That open feeling comes back in big cities, though now I see everyone like little more than dove ****.
Drink the drink, away, away;
I’ll come again for 6th grade field day.