It is cold tonight.
The sun is finally starting to set later, giving me more energy to finish my long days before declaring it a night.
It is silent and still, this cold night, so much that it feels like the white space between notes on a page.
It is scary just floating here, waiting for the staff and chords to place the melody. I can almost hear it, the way wind chimes sing their way into my brain long before I can find where they hang.
I feel raw and exposed this winter night, waiting for Spring to come.
I want to be home, by my fire.
I don’t want the acoustic station playing as I wait, because there are no words for this feeling. Violins and guitars and cellos are a better voice. Notes play low and long, both mournful and anticipatory, as if longing for what is not yet created but soon to be, as if what cannot be seen is already known.
I think the winter wind is singing to the seeds.