In the thin shadows of a late dawn, the Blackbird lets the cat out of the bag. Calls out with a voice that resounds with the hits of glass marbles blasted out of the ring. Can't help himself, as he gorges the last of the wrinkled grapes on the drooping vines. Like some swaying reveller who can't quite find his way home, he knocks the last dregs back and dribbles as he chatters with his mouth full.
Beneath all of this, the pond holds the Carp as if time has been suspended.