"Now, like the revolving figures on a music box,
ominous plain clothes men and women from Sarastro's fortress
appear outside my home," scibe was saying.
"I see them everywhere.
One of me. Thousands of them. I have no idea who they are.
With wordless demonstrations of questionable protective tradecraft,
They interfere with the pleasure of my walks in the woods.
If my life is in danger, why have they never told me?
No lessons of protective tradecraft are offered
for the expected privacy of my own home,
where it is as if a pulsed acoustic weapon is always aimed at me.
My head jerks in response; my eyes close.
I try to read. I loose my place. I cannot read the history of the CIA
or the life of Mozart.
As she spoke, from the Personal Digital Assistant in her pocket,
we heard the unexpected sound of silver bells.
Papageno's silver bells, Tamino's magic flute, a chorus of voices:
"Silberglockchen, Zauberfloten."
Silver bells. Magic flute.