The helicopter,

The helicopter, a sort of controlled silver leaf dropped lightly into the clearing. The searchlights swung, the little girl, the little girl was crying, her mother, a girl herself, was giving birth, the forest dropped birdseeds of milk. Then the helicopter lifted away, the mother rested. Like him who came to us empty-handed, who came, it seemed, with nothing, Joseph Cornell—          making a shoebox universe to put it all in.