You should receive the postcards by June when I reached Prague. The old town square looks different after the tension of March. We hold meetings to discuss how to nestle down in the chamber of the astronomical clock. From there you can see the pinnacle of the Cathedral occupied by the petrels; and the bricks on the square, an unrecognizable grid seen from above, run over by burning churns. Four months of conference bores everyone. Especially those who don't belong to this land. The gannets and cormorants. They want to lead all the beaks and feather, and have all the rooftops and chandeliers. But that's strongly opposed. They did't grow up on the bank of Vltava, and slide through the eyot at dusk, the sand of which comes from Dresden. They also held up meetings there and isolated us, in spring. All these large coastal breeds, coming from the north where democratic is achieved among all. Only to have more meetings, and endless motions. Quarrels with the flutter of wings while preaching their advanced methods of hatching. But that doesn't work for us. We are pigeons with a sense for the diretion. Our breed lived on this land for centuries. We witnessed this city built from cobble, and we shall live our way until it burned to ashes. These intruders must be evicted. At all cost. ----So as the swallow read her postcard, and cried.