The Age of Arrows

In the age of arrows I reasoned a dove as a mouthpiece for number theory. The
dove said the route of flight is a square because wings placate space to
justify motion. I pioneered learning how to pee from remote locations into
the cups of my neighbors. In the evening I was initiated into the mysteries
of the abacus. The dove was there. The dove was not speaking. For many
nights I mistook the rattling of branches as the clacking of beads. A snake
in my shoe engines spit into my sleep. The same sounds from the ceremony. A
lonely mathematician preoccupied with quantities. Leaves suspended above a
stump holding inquisitions. I am next. "Your solitary heart divided by the
sum of all the distances in an actual heart equals many birds."