the composer
pens his Prelude in D . . .
solar winds
Somewhere, deep in the shadows of his mind, Angelo sits with himself. In his weathered hands he holds a harp strung with strands of his hair. He peers into the void. The void echoes back its nothingness. The man turns his attention to the embers casting a pale glow at his feet and kicks them back to life. Sparks float into the deep emptiness. Content with the now-starry sky, he begins to massage the harp strings as if about to pluck a note. But, then, with a deep sigh, he rests the harp at his side.
A wandering muse steps from the shadows, a lost look on his face. Angelo isn’t sure what to make of him, but offers the muse a place by the fire and a bowl of vegetable stew. The muse stammers profusely about how he hasn’t eaten in days, but mostly that he hasn’t encountered a creative soul in months; his life force is nearly spent. “I am nourished by creation, you see.”
“I am nourished by inspiration,” Angelo replies. “Perhaps, you can help me out.”
“I have never tasted such flavorful soup,” the muse replies. “My mother had no imagination—she named me Joe—always the same bland broth. You seem quite creative. Perhaps, you can help me.“
They study each other’s faces silently in the glow of the fire. Angelo reaches for his harp; Joe begins to chant: one, two, three; one, two, three . . . the shadows begin to dance.
wings and pollen
in harmony with the winds
dancers and drifters
