I got up early for the second time this week. I went up the fairy tale hill holding a child’s plastic windmill in the sports car driving rain – thankfully I got a bus at the pit stop, getting off at the army hill where big black birds were playing with miniature soldiers. I noticed Napoleon was planning his Russia campaign (I tried to persuade him otherwise but birds do not do history); Wellington meanwhile was in the early morning cafe wearing a new pair of gloves – he didn’t do history either. I met the friendly giant in his hillside home; we communicated via badges sewn on denim jackets and I came home like Ruben’s representation of the East wind. When I got in the dog had buried the trumpet in lieu of a bone so I blew my own flower vase.