When an evergreen turns color: a signal. There, behind the dusty boards, injury. We were playing dead in the attic, owl-less. Amputation was clean. A cobweb released moth wings from its face, elimination of a limbless use. Enough time elapsed for a missing person report— We were not ready. We heard her passing spread of wings once, felt the silent serration and thought, This is how we’d hear if we went blind.