The Mysterious Chord

I told her they were sleeping.

A cliche, like death.

A prolonged lapse of unconsciousness, ellipses thrumming the air like an unknown guitar chord. My heart flaps like a hummingbird's wing.

But she is not afraid. She is fascinated.

She investigates the pile like a detective. Birds plucked out of the sky, almost hierarchical in their arrangement. Claws outstretched, reaching for something. At least, she'd like to think so. She has waited so long for a bird to land on her hand, trying to scatter salt on their tails; a pixie's dust, an long discarded old wives' tale.

But she does not touch them. She sits by the pile, bewitched, as if the birds have held her there. For it is their own sparkle, propelled by that Mysterious Chord, that has drawn us in. A haunting elegy.