Zill Edge

by Doug Knous

First, there are two women low to the ground; many shiny disks lie before them. The room has living breathing people sitting about. The women have modest, simple requests; basically, try to be quiet and pay attention.

The women rise up, and ringing is in the air. The people adjust, some still arriving to sit, see, and hear. The zills have moving rhythm; they ask for keener attention to them, so my eyes close. There is a ringing zinging mayhem in my hair, but in my skull and bones there is a clear and steady rhythm.

Then there is only water – falling water, spinning water, crashing water, smashing water – everywhere. For a while the water calms some, then it is gone. Only a forest remains, with daylight shining through.

The trees are full of many, many, many different kinds of birds. Singing, chirping, taunting, cackling in chaos, then all in chorus; some leave and new ones fly in. In the madness and the racket they all seem to know exactly what each other is doing. They join together with powerful waves of sound, and then break. This suddenly appears as an attempt to communicate.

There is, or seems to be anyway, a message. What message, I cannot say. Then there is an edge. A perfect edge. Then I am that edge. Not on edge, like when the dentist comes at you with the drill. Not like on the edge of a cliff and about to fall. Just being an edge, like perfectly balanced and incredibly sharp. I can hear every zill tone and every person around the room – the room itself, the cars outside, the wind outside, the sound of the air passing into and out of my lungs, all together, standing and singing on this samurai-like edge that I am.

Then the women go quiet, and normal life sounds return. The group gathered eventually disperses. However, this edge still holds me, through the rest of the evening till I fall asleep.