Thunder rolled softly in the distance, somewhere well beyond the high wall of the backyard fence. A night wind from that distant disturbance in the atmosphere was just starting to lick the grasses at the edge of the thin, uneven concrete walkway to the garage. In the wild summer growth that had once been a passable garden the pink flamingo stared wildly with lidless eyes at the growing storm.

The plastic bird had been there on its single stick leg all summer, being consumed slowly by the green growth around it. The bird said nothing but its painted eyes were alive in terror at what the wind might blow in. It was late summer and the season would soon begin to shift. Around the bird, whispers began, indiscernible at first but gradually increasing in volume until syllables and even phrases were almost audible to the careful ear. The garden grass murmured as it swayed. It’s sound was like early morning prayers in dusty cathedrals far away. At the very end of the yard, near the fence, something moved in the shadows. Not an animal exactly. Its movements were too deliberate. Not human either. It was too much in tune with the environment through which it passed.

It looked at the plastic bird and the wind picked up, now tossing the grasses in different directions. It was coming. The flamingo could not close its eyes or move on its single, planted leg. For a moment it saw the hooves and the shaggy hair.

But as quickly as it had come, the wind stopped and in the sky above the clouds parted briefly to reveal a cluster of stars. The grass was still. Whatever had been had passed.

In the east the very first hint of the new day began to announce its presence and the creatures of daylight began their early morning rounds.