The sun crept up on the field’s hazy horizon, shedding a faint golden light that reflected off pools of blood. Down in the valley not yet touched by the sun, among the shadows of a great willow, slept a silent presence. As the sun crawled higher in the sky, the shadowy figure began to unstiffen. Red rust flaked off onto the ground as gears ground and metal scraped against metal. The lights in her eyes flickered on, awakened for another day of labor. Her clunky feet trudged out of the valley as she gazed on the vast slaughter below.

The sound of jazz is a beautiful thing. Nothing on earth quite like it. It can be smooth and slow like molasses or as riveting as homemade whiskey. My momma always said the sound of jazz could make dreams come true.