Spring 2015
windows are growing darker and more dense with the night. He closes his eyes. But for how long?
When he opens them it is very dark but he can still see the outline of the house on top of the hill
and even the windows. The glass in the windows. Their sheen like that of obsidian and perfected for
years inside the earth. A light moves behind the black sheen across one window and reappears in the
next. A passing car? No. It pauses at one window, then a next, as if looking out and then continues
on. No rhyme, no reason, no rhythm. Then it is in the window off the sun porch. He is aware again
of a piano playing with no melody or beat. He listens. What else can he do? Then he hears something
down the hill from the other side of the fence. And he is certain it is shoes in the dark and they are
Missy Misamore’s and — there — the sound of the teakwood gate rattling. He looks up to the house.
Impatiently now. Yes, worried. The light begins moving again and passes the line of windows and
pops out on to the slated side terrace and it is n o reflection at all but it is moving, drifting slowly
down toward him. The gate rattles again and the shoes scuff on the gravel as if someone is pulling at
the door. And on the light comes down the slope toward him. He recognizes its stride and its sway.
But he recognizes the shoes behind him, too, and the hand at the teakwood gate. Of both he is sure.
“Hurry.” He whispers to the drifting light. “Hurry, Patricia, hurry!”
END.
The Linnet's Wings