The goose juggler balances birds on his palm. Flips them high. Spins them like pizza dough. He does this with his eyes closed. In the dark of his quarry-cave he performs for rocks. He likes their blank, stony faces. He likes their names. ‘Obsidian, quartz, pyrite.’ He performs. His geese squawk. The stones do nothing. He likes the emptiness of his cave. His cave has no clocks. He can’t stand the pressure of passing minutes. He likes the pressure of geese feet in his hand, of feathers fluffed. As far as he knows he is the only man who can juggle geese. The only man who knows how geese rise and fall. He knows geese like he doesn’t know women. The geese aren’t derisive. The rocks don’t judge. Unlike the woman he left behind who left him gasping. Without clocks he doesn’t feel the passing of time. That yearning beneath. He stands on one foot and juggles five large geese. He does this for an unknown measure of time. He stops. The rocks eye him impassively. As she knelt before another man, she eyed him impassively. He watched them for one minute, then another. Deep in the cave, he takes a bow.