Vivaldi-Four Violin Concertos
It begins abruptly. The dynamic of the violins trading blows like a choppy sea; a creature scrambling in the waves barely alive. There’s pleading in the frenzied pull of the bows. A greensick hunger for air—chin just above the break—salty water slapping against cheeks and filling the basin of a gasping mouth. The arms are tired in the night and the eyes forget to see and then the creature forgets itself in sleep; resigns its need.
We wake on the shore. A morning is waking her eyes beside ours at the horizon and she whispers, or we whisper:
With our hand we feel the moss growing across the rocks and we crawl with them, reaching for the sun, for water to cure the bile and burn in our lips chest throat. On the fog can be heard—if listened to closely—the sighs of a long day arriving home at last. We grow fast and run through a forest of years. We tear our skin on the low branches. Dots of blood to be lapped up as needed by grabby roots and searching fingers with tongues for nails.
In the garden everything seems in dull order. A lazy stroll. She’s wearing white and holding her arm out, brushes the softferns—flicks a playful bang of dew into the airs behind her and she turns, only just, to laugh and call out your name. The sound falls like the mist of dew to your ears; like the grass where your toes are cooled and held by welcoming blades.