.Windchimes.

Sunlight streaming through bamboo shoots. Flickering behind the stalks and passing clouds. Air crisp in its ultimate Autumn-ness. Like biting into a freshly picked apple. A crunch- followed by cold sweetness. Clear streams murmuring under bridges. Leaves falling like fire- whispering from the trees as they go;  the Island awakes.

Perfect Moment.

But it misses them. The moment misses them like the Lions miss the plains. The Whales miss the oceans. The Wolves miss the woods. It longs for them- and so they arrive.

Strangely muffled their footsteps make no crunch among the fire leaves. No words. No need. Just breath; in.... out.... in.... out.... Rhythm-silence-beauty-song-love-sound-perfection....Silence. And the streams, they murmur on. The leaves, they burn down- but the footsteps make no sound.

Windchimes in the distance. Singing.... singing.... singing "Hope". Singing "Peace".

Crossing the bridge now. Dark wood creaking, Heavy lanterns swinging. The other side approaches like a storm. And then it breaks upon them- the peace of the island.

Laughter. Infectious. Spreading from his belly to her lips. Her lips to his hands. His hands to her throat. Her throat to their hearts. Everything is warm- even the shadows. And suddenly the song. The music- the strange, haunting melody drifting among the bamboo. The call to be wild. 

Crouching now she waits. Knees bent. Palms kissing dirt. Eyes reflecting darkness among the creak of the bamboo shoots. Curling, curling smaller she gets. Taut as a bowstring. As a heart string. Ears spread wide for his scent upon the wind. A twig snaps- tensing, she remains still, turning only her focus toward the sound. Drawing the shadows closer, kissing the dirt harder, she waits.

Calming now he hunts. Center still. Focus spread wide. Low he bends and paces along the shore. Stones upon the path. Watercress beneath the stream. Sparrows in the trees... She wouldn't be here. Here is too open. Too bright. Bamboo creaking- he hears- responds. A slight twitch of the foot and he has turned. Faces the grove. Stilling again, he listens.


Darkness falling. Descending upon the island in slow gentle waves. Warm- tinged with sunset and lingering laughter. The game is over. Prize caught, he holds her. Chase given up, she is held. Ivy creeping through the underbrush. Raven calling. Bamboo rustling. The cool clearness of an autumn evening calling.

Perfect Moment.

And it does not miss them. Complete, the Moment smiles with the Wind. And the Wind carries the Smile. And the Smile finds the Windchimes. And the Windchimes singing. "Hope"- still singing.... "Hope." 

Later they will fall. Fall like fire leaves into the endlessness of sleep. And before sleep into bed. And in bed there is other falling, of other kinds. Falling that never stops- only begins. And in the black endlessness that is the falling of sleep and the falling of other things, they will hear the windchimes, and they will smile.