Yes, I’ll definitely miss you. She climbed off and straightened her clothing. Maybe I should upgrade to an SUV.

* * *

Miranda saw the hawk circling a moment before she heard the drum. Following the sound through Seattle’s Green Lake Park, she came upon a man dressed entirely in black, sitting on a park bench and playing an African djembe. Auburn hair fell to his shoulders and a necklace of what looked like fangs hung around his neck. He glanced up as she joined the small crowd of listeners, smiled at her, and shifted to a lively rhythm that spoke to her in a language beyond words.

The beat resonated through Miranda’s body, and she swayed along with it.

Closing her eyes, she felt the sound swirling around her, filling her with such joy she could barely keep from laughing aloud. She heard a chorus of men chanting, a woman’s voice ululating. But when she opened her eyes, she saw no one singing. How odd, she thought. Again she closed her eyes, and again she heard the voices.

When the drumming stopped, the crowd applauded. Some dropped money in a coffee can near the drummer’s feet as they dispersed. Miranda started to clap, but ended up holding her palms together at her heart as if in prayer.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure,” the drummer answered.

“I heard singing.”

“Ah, good. They’re always here, but few people hear them.”

“Who?”

“The spirits of the drum.”

Confused, she shook her head to clear it. “When I arrived, you started playing a different beat.”

“Drumming is an ancient form of communication. Each rhythm has a meaning.”

He grinned, exposing even, white teeth. “When I saw you coming, I played the beat that announces the presence of a beautiful woman.”