Lakeside, the Music Plays On

The lake has its own orchestrated acoustics. The quaking of oboes and the bassoon-ing honks of a skein of geese conduct a loosely scored morning air. Rustling reeds chime in fluted stems, a wind section throats through its hollow notes, and then there is you. you who hesitantly strum within each lip-breathing earshot nevertheless your strings are tuned high to the vibrating moment. All this ‘a cappella’ is inside you now like a chick cracking though its own eggshell. You look around your shoulders searching for the composer see nothing, only a naught that imagines paused fingertips above a keyboard. Will you sing now or depart unfinished? The ensemble of the assembled has left. You can try again when your inner metronome is less bolted to its mechanical tongue, but for a time harmony nest elsewhere.