About a hundred flying in the green-tinted zone
between slate sky and vanishing half-sun.
Parked cars grow black fuzz.
The world mutes.
Their flapping wings
are grand pianos falling.
My heart twists as I brace for the crash
of soundboards splintering—Beethoven, Mozart,
Gershwin, Tatum, Monk—destroyed in a final
Coyotes claw their ears.
I feel a ripple underground as I lose the last remnant
of sun. Silence blows across bruised sky and land.
For a moment, I hear inside myself—pulse drum, lung flute—
interrupted by voices: we’ll make garrotes from the strings.
Published in The Pedestal Magazine