Music leaks from the heavens as stars swish through
the night. To hear the stars, to decipher
the song, you must first capture the proper numbers in your hands and then cup
the numbers against your ears.
By day, the wind-struck trees hum and the walls of
the stone-canyons whistle softly. And
there is a song where eagles fragment the clouds as they pass through, where
insects flex clear wings against window panes, where white stones fall into the
green sea, where a single blade of awnless bromegrass sways against the first
full moon of summer.
There is music where the morning sun warms your neck
and forearm—that, the song you feel.
That, the place where we begin, my dear.
--Mitchell
Hegman
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