A noise startled us out of an everyday reverie. But there was no wind blowing; not a shingle banged loose from the roof. Clocks don't sound like that when stopped. Didn't we let the water trickle out of the taps so the pipes wouldn't freeze and burst? Every window was latched, every room quietly warm, unpeopled. Finally, after walking around upstairs, we found the source— Guitar strings too taut in the dry heat of the house, snapped and coiled around themselves. In one clean move, the whole bridge sheared and pulled off. How to make music out of accident? Improvise, or initiate a new rhythm? Juncos forage in the soil beneath the window, chattering; more of them would make a blizzard. Keeping to ourselves is what we do, in contrast— Look at the neighbors and their festivities: card games on the table, disco lights spinning in the kitchen. Maybe it's not all the time. Nevertheless, whoever's observing would mark the difference. Outgoing, but always ready to hurry back to the cozier inside. Performance of any sort takes so much energy. Quirks and customs, quaint ideas. Remember how to read music? Some parts are about counting and pacing; others about feeling your way. Then there are crescendos and decrescendos. Unbound, all of a sudden a sound twangs hard then gradually softens. Voice works in similar ways—the purity before the breaking. Who hasn't wished as hard for silence as for company? Exceptions, of course— You, coming back from the brink of death; or you, waiting so long for love and absolution. Zodiac sign: load-bearing ox, changeable fish, sand-dwelling crab, hard-headed ram.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.