Alto

(the forest has never judged her...a tree does not understand scrutiny)


young and beautiful, this has been passed on to her, made her life.  her birth has named her pasion and purpose.
raising the bow, a moon shines upon its hair reflecting like silver... viola under her chin, she pulls the bow across a single note.
lightley at first,
hanging in the air--- quivering with a swift vibrato... a wind sweeps it away.
reaching the frog she changes keys and the tone strengthens; the chord grows stronger
pounding against the trees' trunks the autumn leaves come thundering down as a fiery blizzard...
as the viola's vioce softens, the leaves decrescendo with it...

her piece is finally over, exhausted, she moves aside for one of her three sisters to take her place.

brisk and fast; the world turns white and swirls and freezes....
for the next sister, it transitions between forms of growing beauties being created from dazzling arrangements.

time passes and she has played a part in the concert for hundreds of years;  old and stiff, she has trouble making the beautiful sounds with her beloved instrument that she could when she was young all those years ago.

sisters dead and replaced, she too dying... this song would be her last...
piano-lagato... carried on a note, final leaf descended gently to the ground.

lying on the earth, a young player comes to her.  kisses her cheek with the gentleness of a granddaughter.  picking up the old woman's instrument, she begins to play.. raising the departed body up to the tree tops and raining her down as snow...