rises and rises making the sound of peoplebeing good—or at least trying. It dipsthe way they fail then climbs again. Bats and small birds who cannot fly the altitudes duck and soar a bit. The rising, like a drug,reminds us of those good people. Called, good people walkinto the need. She needed to know, that woman unaccustomed to children,why the baby, newly walking, didn’t cry. Over and over he fell, rose bottom first, hands to the ground, laughing, stepping, falling. I didn’t have an answerfor her then, or now, except— they are not alone—no more than the solo cello is—it only seems alone. Notes ascend in patterns whilea deep blue chord, soul of some invisible instrument, lifts the climber from beneath. Only four strings? Impossible—but there it is. The vibrato of autumn coming, darkbefore dinner, cold every morning—Canada geesestop chasing park-goers for crumbs and form majestic Vs.The pleasure in the dark is knowinghow glorious the light will be. Listening to the geese above the cello playing above the other invisible cello, I rememberhow good it is to eat bread—and we can still eat bread at a table! I can still walk to get from one place to the loud river. It is good to writelying on the floor withone eye open, one eye closed.
