Day 7.

In my dream there's a field of violins, the bows changing like sunlit wheat in the wind

The conductor is the eye of a tornado of music.

the whole orchestra bears down, alive and tribal, strong and beautiful and new each season, each page turn with

possibility.

And it is possible that all force, all energy in the universe, bears down only upon these players.

But our bodies are strange to us, they shake without warning, until we let loose the howl,

the barbaric yawp.

The trumpets streak out final rebel cries, a high wound, and slump to the ground,

lost in the sound.

The trombones reach for what is just beyond, give in to a last swoop of air before they too fall by the wayside.

The french horns curl in on themselves and feel the tendrils slip out from under them, and let it happen.

The saxes, the circling birds, lower into wide ripples, landing loudly, refusing to fade away.

The bassoon is the stilling cry of the lark, the invisible loon who called to you at twilight when there were deep and musky shadows to explore.

There is no choice, the flutes stumble forward, flutter tonguing incidentally, accidentally, but they burrow into the safe cover of the string sound, the hovering, sustaining breath.

The clarinets, the noise of river reeds become the turtle who ducks his head in his shell.

The violas, the cellos, the violins, carry on till the sure bow strokes become feeble plucking at drifting feathery notes.

Till all that's left, the only thing standing, is the pure and hurt bass, standing amidst the wreckage, one unquavering voice.

Till the world tilts, and I wake feeling fallen.