I am only a feather, small and maskingly unique. I cry treason at the hawking crows, always gagging up lost carcasses (we'd really rather them remain dead, if you please). And I play psychic in the libraries, rolling tongues of pages and predicting the correct plot scheme, as thought they could ever surprise me.
I hide within this inner circle: a tall statue of peace, a curled sapling, a marigold, and a frog prince. We cast rolls of "who" and "when" and I leave myself out, as I was never much for kissing in ampitheaters.