If you throw a bird out the window, it will fly back.
To pretend the world, stable for you as it is, blows up at that momentary departure, is just fear
that the loss of it, corporal at your sergeant's call, sung-out and absent from the sill,
would disturb your life, leveling its borders -- safely now above the rest.
Don't you -- manager of many moments -- want ever to break their calm and jump down?
If you badly steer, of course: the fen. But copy chance -- the dearest dynamite.