The morning wakes to her voice, like sweet scented wind whistled through the lips of a tropical canopy. Birds gather at her window (barred), wings flapping like a million men running on dry underbrush. The rain inside drips like the pounding of silent piano keys (drumming fingers on wood). Gunshots suddenly (lightening) puncture through the canopy somewhere (men run frantically now).

She has collected her songs in a jar, to sing some other day.