photo by DonKeyHotey
I heard it in the night, abroad
– a single ringing note, purer
than the usual breathy lisp of flutes.
It was a leaping new music,
a clapperless yet sounding bell,
direct from the soul of Apollo.
I imagined the flautist, an exotic bird,
fragrant with peach and lime feathers
forming the most luxurious tassels and trains;
or a nightingale, only brighter,
singing in shimmering ultramarine.
At dawn, as the mists took unhurried leave
and the trees began to steam in the sun,
I saw the flautist: a tiny frog
the size of my thumbnail
– a scrap of jade – a little living leaf.
I knew that this was better than the bird,
that here was show not tell.
I laughed aloud as that thought blew in.
The frog ignored me, playing on
until she had raised the whole of the sun.
(based on an incident from A.E.I. Falconar’s ‘Gardens of Meditation’)
(0) Readers Comments
March 21, 2017
February 21, 2017
I really enjoyed this story. It made me think about my own predisposit
Thank you, Scott.
I have been living in Santiago for about one year and I can confirm th
This was an enjoyable read. I could easily picture the venue and und
Thank you so much, Melanie. I appreciate your kind words about my stor