My daughters and I are sitting on the front steps of our bungalow house on Lincoln Street, but not that exact house in the slightly warped way of dreams. We are bathed in daylight. All of a sudden, a shadow passes overhead: a flock of birds. As they fly closer to us, it’s clear they are not of this world. They carry dusk on their scapulars and their underwings flash the silver of moonlight. Time seems to pause as one of the birds separates itself from the flock.
Then she dives straight for Eva, Shilo, and me, hovering inches above our heads. She is gray, with striking black outlines on her face like a hood and chinstrap. Her head is unusually angular. As we watch in awe, she transforms into a glowing sinewy tangle of electric green, then red, then blue. Then the floating globe separates into three–one of each color. They look like ornaments on fire, and they slowly float over and nestle into the bush next to us.
The girls laugh in delight and I start to cry, greatly humbled by the miraculous secret that was just revealed to us out of nowhere.