The heartbeat of my childhood has tick-tocked with each passing moment of time. There are owls and stags pinched in the woodwork. The forest pours its spirit into the etchings of Oak trees, called to stop in its place by a pendulum. Eyes fierce, backs arched. Feathers and wings, poised to take possession of their rightful place in the wind. Antlers and hooves charge against the flood of seconds and minutes and hours at their heels, never to return after the memory is lost. The clocks strike and their chimes serenade the portals opening up to another frame of mind.

Clocks unwind themselves as time unfolds, lulling their audiences to the comforts of inaction. The wheels and cogs sputter and shift, but the intricate mechanisms cannot reject their design. The cuckoo bird will emerge at the hour’s beckon. Crooning sweetly, the bird cannot be released; it is bound by the shackles of fate. Day breaks, and night falls, and it is our purpose to complete what we are meant to do.