The confrontation. In her breathless trance I feel that I am becoming a shadow on the wall. I am volumizing – my insides fading out, while my body remains solid and a melody still flowing from her fingers. I open my eyes and exclaim, I felt myself disappearing! The person at my side laughs as if I am making a joke. She recites this poem to me:
The ceremony
Begins
As I gather supplies
For my journey
Over my shoulder
A flute made of silver
To guide me
And serve as protector
Led by the moon
Are my feet marching on
My eyes absorb her brightness
Mindless
Of my destination
Once there
We have a seat and play
The walls surround
Catch sound
Sending it every way and upward
Lovers swoon
At my sorrowful tune
While still others seem disturbed
Until finally I am desserted
Left alone to play a wind song for the birds of
Night and you
Have come to join me
I found her in a pool of her own blood. A bullet through her brain. Another drive-by shooting? Perhaps. Kids these days are so paranoid they probably thought she was planning to open fire with a small silver cannon. Anyway, no one saw the tire tracks inside the court until Dawn arrived and pointed them out to us. She had a special interest in the case. We at the precinct found her forte in seemingly meaningless crimes and especially murder, well – exploitable. I had to grin when I realized the pun I’d made in connection with the blood spattered sheet music spread all around the girl. It seemed she wouldn’t be around for a second refrain. I was just trying to make out some notes when Dawn explained the tracks were that of a motorcycle driven by a heavy set man in his early thirties. She had determined all of this from the width and pattern of the tire tracks – nothing more. It was the conservative, yet seasoned way he made his way around the small court that had her convinced the man who murdered this small, now silent angel was no kid.