My friend, Phil Harvey, beset with allergies, drives us to the ranch. The ostriches stay on their side of the chicken wire, though now and again, a few snake their heads over to snatch a bit of chow from outstretched hands. A male crouches, fanning his feathers, seeking to impress a female who is not unwilling. They try mating, but he can only stay hard a few seconds. Ostrich sex, I learn from a ranch hand, is brief, over in an eyeblink. I feel bad. Giant misfit birds — they can’t fly, sing or fuck very well. I sympathize. I’m crammed with urges my body can’t indulge — the Erotic Accordion, Passion Propeller — my pubic hair silvered, my potency diminished. I offer the rest of my chow to the birds. The female wanders off while the male emits a lonesome trumpeting that sounds a lot like Phil blowing his nose.