The maestro cradled the mixture of powdered glass base, in the sky-blue ceramic bowl, pale suns with pointed rays on its sides. He sat on the window sill, from whence he could see his grey Volkswagen Rabbit, and its license plate, bordered with small flying bats on a background gradient of light yellow down to darker peach.
The siren was sounding, as if a tornado siren, marking twelve o-clock to many miles. A black cross of beams and stoplight wires divided the view of the heavens. The window beyond the window cradled another man, all in the glowing, ephemeral colours of eye-burn from bright light plunged into darkness. All the other windows contracted to obscured loop-holes in that featureless black sheet across the space, a rectangle of metal paper. Beyond the other man, through his lightless room and down the dark hallway, through the room at the other end, another window, green as a golfer’s visor, with winter day’s light coming through it.
The maestro cast a pinch of silver salt, fogged by his breath, into the bowl he held, and forthwith from the glass powder there sprouted tufted nibbling-beaked fingers of green flame.