Far too late into the party, when our chests felt scorched by rum and humid air and our eyes wobbled like lights underneath the pool water, we took the egg carton off the high shelf. I remember how carefully your long fingers pressed the two little tabs then lifted the top out and over them. Inside the carton were twelve polished brown stones swirled with silver and white. Each rock had a unique pattern set with two yellow gems. I admired them on the coffee table while you ran off to grab the frozen mice from the fridge in the basement.

We scattered the carcasses on the floor and waited. As usual, it felt ridiculous at first, and a couple minutes in we nearly gave up, sure it wouldn’t work this time. Who are these fools laying out dead rodents in ritual?

At that moment of doubt, the first stone awoke, wings cracking out. Soon beaks shone and the table was hopping. We looked at each other and laughed: three, six, then twelve owls flew in a circle, beautiful and small.

“You have to let them eat,” I said, not that anyone wanted to get their hand between those sharp crystal beaks and the mice.

“How do they fly?” You asked. Because they’re made of stone, you meant.

“It’s in the chest,” I say, “the sternum. That’s where all the power lies.” Right then one landed in your hand munching on a haunch, so thankfully I didn’t have to defend my reply.

When the owlets’ dinner was over, we kept looking up, following one and then the next until they became just a silver smokey wave of interlaced lines. You sighed and laid down on the floor, while I slumped in the chair. Not everything was perfect. We shouldn’t have got so drunk. The owlets couldn’t extend their magic beyond here. And sometime soon, you’d wake up.