I wish I had an imagination like this

When I walk through the garden this morning I see evidence from last night's play. Lots of little shapes, identically cut from thin white paper, arranged on the hard stone paving in a swirling mass. Each identical little shape, like a bird, is fastened to the ground with a tiny pebble, some coloured, some plain.

This is beautiful! I cry, and instantly photograph the installation art, which is Squirrel's, and I'm claiming it for her here, so I don't want to see it in any gallery without her name.

Squirrel! I think this is poetic! I say, pointing to the ground, seeing the fragile wings stir and move in the breeze, as if wanting to rise up and be free in the air. This makes me think of freedom, captivity, sorrow, joy, preservation and loss!

Squirrel looks as me, puzzled. Mummy, she explains carefully, because I am possibly mad and at best deluded. They are pterodactyls. They will fly away if I do not hold them down.