I'm sitting at a hotel room desk in Barcelona, with 52 minutes before I need to head downstairs and hail a taxi to the airport. 18 minutes ago this seemed like an abundance of time, but now I write in haste, already feeling light and memory slipping away from me, and I want to pin them in place with what words I can while my mind teems with language and awe.

I can hear common waxbills through the window. They're so unexpectedly tiny, little bandit finches that flock and flit so charmingly I think...