Crowding into the nest, caught by the tantilizing rub of a key, burned the flavors we associate with seasons and the times of day. Pockets formed the size of carrots in shapes of nautilus fossils and water wheels, snails, Freudian skull-caps and the view through the swirling eyes of a mole. This is clearest to the fetus fed blood through a gut-tunnel eggplant fluff, harnessed by an outstretched slick that rings with songs of the spirit.