Tree and trumpet

There's the tree rooted firmly in that corner of the garden, branches bare this time of year, though buds appear to promise that these ancient limbs are no less capable than their supple neighbors. Lichens rust, gray and green may be found clinging to one side where the prevailing cold enters this scene. A robin redbreast clasps a crooked arm. She gives us her bold and complex song. We strive to hear repetition and find none, although there is an inner song that changes little, one of jubilation riding just this side of doom and decay, but for now, her song holds forth, catching us up in her quest for life—could be a fat wriggler amidst the dirt and twigs—could be more than we expected from a mere bird, anticipation of the shovel, say, and the hand of the gardener who will open up the earth a minute just in time for breakfast.

We see our breath this time of year, especially that dew-heavy hour when dawn comes in with enough light to go around, so much we take it for granted. Not so the tree, whose sap though slow to rise this side of February, will indeed move through the xylem cells and push pale blossom first and later on the leaf, heralded by the pastel fall. And so we express our wonder at the show of Spring, the intensities of Summer and Autumn's withering beauty—seasons and senses filled with smoke and light, glimpses of gold and reassuring greens.

Stacked together like books on the shelf we reach out and take these colors and their awakening codes to our room or spread them out upon the table asking for more when we're the ones being asked to bring what we already have. And what might that be?

Wakefulness. Patience. Silence. Laughter. Applause.

Listening now to Leonore #3 on the heels of #1 and #2 my goodness the weight and pace and clarity is extraordinary. All the momentum of the first two is there but so uncluttered and driven, not stripped away but consolidated—an economy of sound but no less rich or full. More rich, more full. It's as if the spaces now created in this third version find us pulled in, drawn magnetically, compelled by echo and fading lights, quickened by resounding timpani and brass, enlivened by strings striking and dancing across the mind.

There's the trumpet—so far offstage he's in the hallway where the security guard questions him. Oy, mate! Wotcha doin' lurkin' out here, then? Well, the answer might be, Do you want the cavalry to come or not?

Yes, please...