Perchance to Paint.

It began with church music, yet there was no church.

Choral voices, Latin, and an organ.

And although there was no sign or creed or sacrament, a feeling of exhalation swept over her. The notes followed the demands of the players unseen hands as if bidden by angels above.

And suddenly it stopped. Silence settled over the place where the church would have been if there had been one.

A place that was empty, devoid of form and substance.

Just a grey light.

Then yellow, blinding and a little frightening.

Then blue.

A peaceful, serene, comforting blue.

And then a road.

A cart trundled along the road.

Only the sound of the wheels and the hooves of the horses that pulled it.

And bird song.

Then darkness and more silence.

The soft sound of breathing.

A sigh.

One eye opened, taking in the light of the new day.

 

An Elsewhere Scat.

Leaves scat across the track like jazz singers, the wind gusting as if it is notes from an improvisation, after midnight, in a small club in Manhattan.

Or Amsterdam.

Rain is waiting in the wings, maybe tomorrow.

Maybe tonight, as we sleep.

He walks on.

A young-deer, skits into the forest like a ballerina practicing on a small stage in Moscow.

Or Berlin.

He decides to follow.

Into the forest where silence hangs like forgotten Christmas decorations.

He stops.

He listens.

The wind returns, whistles and ebbs and flows and disappears into the valley below.

Leaving him to admire the baubles waiting in the branches.

Some silver.

Some gold.

They whisper to each other.

He tries to make sense of it, then remembers.

Stops trying.

And simply, Is.