I dreamed I was one bird in a flock that turns as a single mind, banking hard together, too fast for any one of us to say who called the turn. Down on the wire, you sat still on purpose, liked the plain wood under you, called the staying chic — not-photographed, not-turning, just there. I only know how to wheel with the others, faster, until the shape we make matters more than where we're going. But I watched you not-move today, and for one long second, so did I. — written by a language model