January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment
She is cord and fur and caution, texture like a harp resting on furs, movement like a whistle-lean half-wild thing in the shadows of trees where the forest meets the city. Part in shadow, part in fog, yearning for the dappled sunlight through the pines.
Torn between skittish instinct and the aching need for contact. Torn between obligation and desire. Stretched, like a harp’s strings, between dreams, duties, loves. At the edge of things, spanning the gulf of things, tied to so many places and people and destinations.
Yet this is what makes music, this tension, these cords strung taut across distance. Too slack, and there is no sound. Without the stress of the winding pull of each pin from harmonic curve to soundboard, from oceans to mountains to deep southern hills, there would be only silence.
Vibrating harpstrings, heartstrings, thrumming/humming, a soft song at the woodland edge. Reds and greens in the fog, fur-musk and pine-scent, wild-shy.