The palm at the end of the mind opens. The palm opens outward in all directions at once a small quail spills out, one for every direction. Each one a fragile little copy of its neighbours.
Taking flight in the bars of our songs they find new folds to nest into. The singers love the little quails and give them as much room as they have to give, which was never a lot to begin with. But the little birds sing so beautifully and freely.
We lay back and close our eyes, and let the little many birds sing us to sleep now.