Stillbird

by Sandra Shwayder Sanchez

A woman’s voice, neither old nor young, clear as a starry night, sings loud, rough notes into the cold air. Then a man answers and there is the sound of a drum: firm, regular, inexorable drum beats, no grace, no passion, just firm…regular…inexorable. Other men’s voices join in before they build to an angry crescendo and abruptly stop. Then another woman’s voice, farther away, weak and sad like a sob, and then silence. Silence until dawn, and then the drums again, and bagpipes very loud, almost joyous.

  Every night Abel sat with his son by the evening fire and dreamed of the music of his youth and woke up wondering, as he wondered every night, if he would find the woman the next morning.