It started with her near the ocean. The waves pounded against the beach, spraying the nest of her brown hair. It started with her stealing a fishing boat, the men from behind calling out to her, their voices lost in the sound of surf, the waves pushing the boat forward, towards the moon resting still on the horizon. The stars were dim. She knew them, intimately.
Her bare legs were coiled up against the ribs of the boat, her eyes staring forward, owl wide, looking for the exit to the bay, for the twin statues of stone birds who marked the end of this world and the start of the next.
Behind was her house. In ruins. Picked apart. A nobody home now. Vines and fungus had long since claimed it, insects and animals running free through the various rooms. Behind was her old life, the life burnt and smoldering, as if destroyed in war.
In her left hand was spindled the map, the first stanza of the poetry in her mind, accented by the harsh sound of the note. B sharp, burning, boiling, baking her thoughts.
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