THE NATIVE INDIAN FLUTE

        The music led me. The full moon cast elongated shapeful shadows on the desert floor and the sand threw the silver light back into the night. A night that stole certainty and then returned it distorted, tinged with fear.
        Familiar shapes would suddenly silhouette themselves before the moon as if the shadows of the day had not disappeared when the sun went down but gathered again in the silent darkness, more real than the objects that cast them.
        The music. A single flute, notes like the silver light of the moon, reaching out and wrapping around my mind, gently leading. The song did not vanish as it played, rather it wrapped around me, cocooned my body in silver thread, leaving me helpless and empty.
        And I was caught in the wind of the flute and lifted, floating, above the desert, carelessly gone. Rising and falling in the wind's wish, brushing against the wings of owls, tip-toeing on the tails of scorpions. Long somersaults carried me ever closer to the music, and other woven threads appeared, drawn ever gently into the vortex. The silver strands of sound reach out like spider silk, weaving every windborne memory of song into a garment of silence that time herself is wearing.