Here we come cycling with our pockets full of beetle legs, dandelion spores and butterfly wings. It’s something determined by culture, a tradition, but there are also city planners and politicians who make it possible. “Look, Mom, I can do a wheelie,” a child shouts happily, and in each window on the block smiling housewives appear. In the pockets on the fronts of their aprons sit birds, and they sing, the birds, so you have to plug your ears with your fingers and hum to yourself, meanwhile, to bear it. Even for a little while after, in the hutches and the kitchen cupboards, the glasses vibrate with a piercing, nearly inaudible tone.