The feral angel came today whirli-gigging the trees, merry-go-rounding the birds, plunging them up and down, like tiny boats on a mighty sea. When the feral angel bellows all else is hushed: the doves cease their cooing, the starlings refrain their chatter, and even the querulous rose-rings hush. And the oft dreamy clouds, now hitch up their skirts and scud across the sky, in a hurry some place else. He calls where the trees stand: deep and sonorous at the papa tree, of higher pitch at the mama. And over there, at the pines, his voice is the sound of wave after wave crashing the pebbled shore churning the shingles in retreat and coming and coming ceaselessly. And all nature yields to this feral angel.