A preening flamingo – bright magenta, almost red – approaches, looks at the woman with his glassy eye, and knows. She prevents him from speaking by plucking his feathers, one by one. She’s sewing a dress out of feathers. The lagoon is strewn with feathers – magenta, red, pink, and white swirling around her legs, the clear blue. She’s selecting only the most vivid feathers. She holds them like pieces of cut glass, turning them in the light, first one way, then another. She ignores the obsidian feathers. She only wants red and magenta, but the feathers scatter into blue. The flamingo eats the discarded feathers, attempts conversation, but the feathers become onyx in his throat. The woman’s sewing a dress out of red and magenta feathers. The flamingo stands, statuesque, on the shore.