That last note lingers, bluer than the brittle sky, sadder than the voice of stones. Mingling with the wind-chime melodies, settling on the thirsty withered leaves and the chipped and worried gutters. The day holds it high, brutal in its sad sustain, clean and homely and full of translucent bones. It sounds like the last edge of a rung bell, like the first bite of that certain apple, forbidden and inevitable. The bright clean timbre of metal, the smooth erudition of glass, sounding in that space without sound, bleeding music into the broad horizon. Trees slow as they wave good-bye, planes droning and spitting smoke as they leave. Something almost heard, a song for the moment the singing ends.