Rescued, gingerly rinsed with water he lies on Kleenex a small Rorschach blob. I take him to the window: an August sun providing fans for his revival. Fingernail against his innards, I lift him into some kind of action. He whirrs for a second, then stops. Has he lost an antenna? A foot perhaps? I search in vain, Ask how many feet he should have in the first place. The art-deco wings intricate but fragile seemed secure. So nudge him into flight, place him on the window, where he suddenly gummed up on his own! Is he ready? I will believe it so: later, coming back, he was gone. Small visito r, send my greetings to the sky. . .