8. Perfectly Played

Perfectly played

The symphony begins with the wind

Howling its single low tone

As if pulled long across a bass violin.

Everywhere leaves rustle and clap

No less musical than brush percussion.

My walking sticks are castanets

Click-clacking, click-clacking.

Above all these

A line of wind turbines

Sings a sultry soprano.

And below

My breath keeps

A steady, straining beat.

Huff two three four, huff two three four.

We are divinely directed

This convergence of sound.

We are a stream of unwritten joy.

I wonder as I play my part

If this is how just one note feels

When perfectly, preciously played.

~ Cheryl Murfin, along the Camino de Santiago