
The wheat has turned to glass shards that sing when the wind cuts through them, each note a different shade of blue that pools in my palms until they overflow and become small fish swimming upstream through the air.
The door vanished but its rhythm lingers in the singing glass, and I notice how the moths' unreadable words transformed into music I can somehow catch and hold. What would happen if the fish swam down instead of up, or if the wheat remained wheat, soft and golden and utterly silent?
