Beethoven's Last Walk - Prose-Poem

The day was cold, snow had fallen. He put on his great coat and strode out into the late afternoon. We kept an eye on him from a distance. Some reported him thrashing the undergrowth growling as if forcing his way through some musical conundrum, others saw him pause, turning around as he gazed heavenward his large head seeming to listen to sounds only he could hear. A lark sang. He noticed its hovering silhouette; muttering he stomped onward. That evening he lay down and would not speak. The sky darkened and began to thunder, strange for that time of year. I thought of the words of Jesus, "Lord why hast thou forsaken me?" It seemed appropriate. His brow furrowed as his fingers tapped some theme upon the bed sheets. Then as if seeing the coda of his life crashing like a wave onto a far shore he raised his fist. Lightning shook the house and when we looked again he was gone.