Watching them flying through the sky in a letter formation, v or maybe u depending on how they feel. They move forward together, the outer most arm flanking the inner, in a silent drill, ten conspiring friends readying themselves for combat. Each individual bird, perhaps grey or off-white, leans and pivots in unison, each a small part of this sharp-blunt instrument. My feet catch a breech in the pavement and I trip, and fall to the floor. My father up until that moment had been ignoring me, his face buried in a newspaper, turned and shot a glare so foul as to muddy my mood. In that instant my mother, my father and I had pushed into each other’s boundaries. They felt this as an insurrection; the piss scented territorial fortress had been breached by my ineptitude. Paradoxically I felt safe. Agile as an antelope, safe in the number 3, odd as it is.