Saturday's sunshine beamed light into a dark room. The warm hum of spring birthed the buzzing fly. The fly woke the girl from a deep sleep, sand still in her eyes. She summed all of her energy to brush the tickling fly away from her ear, to her nose and back to her ear again.
The Piper stood at the center of grove of trees, bagpipe slung over his shoulder.
Fingers place gently on the Chanter. He licked his lips. took in a deep breath of morning air.
The Piper breathed out his tension and apprehension. A melody reverberated through his lungs into the blow pipe, filling the streets of Spanish Harlem with the sounds of the Scottish Highlands.
Excitement for the days adventure, the feel of metal handle bars and the shiny red BMX, fueled adrenalin throughout the young girls veins.
The day ahead held promise of a bike ride through Central Park's lush green trees and fierce rolling hills.
The promise of wind ruffled hair, the songs of birds, and the multicolored bonanza of flowers peeking out from every bush of the Conservatory Garden.
Awake with vigor, looking out of the twelfth story window, the girl searched for the Piper, the bold perpetrator of such an exotic sound, hidden, in plain sight.
The Piper played his tune of enchanting sound, a haunting echo, the siren of the girls youth.
Invisible, lost among towering beds of green leaves, the Piper was never seen by the girl.
The Piper was forever a symphonic ghost, haunting a childhood long since past.
