She stands atop the grassy
hill
Her black hair flowing in the
evening wind,
Gazing off into the blazing
orange of the setting sun.
Taking a deep breath, she
lifts her bow and violin to her chin,
Closes her eyes,
And begins to play for the
setting sun and the world around her.
She plays not of love,
Not of loss,
But of beauty and nature
Letting her fingers dance
along the strings like a performer on a stage
Jumping from end to end, note
to note
Piecing them all together in a
quilt stitched for the ears of the few
The free
The fantastical.
On the land bellow,
A small group of woodland
creatures amasses
To listen to her tune,
Ears twitching in time with
her strokes,
Birds joining in to provide
some light vocals,
Creating a soundtrack Mother
Nature herself would weep to hear.
As the sun sinks deeper bellow
the horizon to make room for the moon,
She slows
Lifts the bow
And opens her eyes to meet
those of her crowd.
She smiles as they stare with
ears bent back and heads cocked to the side,
The birds floating in the air,
as if they were notes left unplayed on a page
Looking, listening, waiting
for the song to go on.
The violinist just smiles down
at them.
“Maybe I’ll play you some more
tomorrow,” she giggles to the excitement of the creatures,
Then gives them a wink
Turns
And walks off into the
moonlight
In search of somewhere
only she knows.
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