The coolness of the coming night descends, met by a warm haze that rises from the water, erasing the dream trees. The canoe floats, silent, but for the hollow splash of waves against its skin, the swirls of water following drips of the paddle. The call of each bird becomes distinct, louder, echoing, announcing the transformation of day to night.
Then you hear it. Faint at first. A mirage of sound. The hollow wailing, fluttering. The ghost flute. Calling, calling, gripping the air, hanging on an echo. The tone becomes purer, amplified, a rope of sound. An incantation.
The phantom bird appears before you. Blood eyes on a black head, elegant, curved, sculpted to a point. It’s body, low to the water, almost submerged, moving like a scuttled vessel, then disappearing in an instant.
From across the water, another dirge, haunting, clinging, indigenous, ancient.
