Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Letter to the Guitar Player a Few Nights Ago

Dear Stranger,

I came to the rocky cliff to sit on stone and watch the fading of the world below. Mere moments after, I heard you take your guitar out of its case and begin to practice. I didn't recognize the songs. One was on the verge of familiarity, but even if you had freed the words of song to soar in the evening light, I doubt I would have been able to name it. There are so many songs that I am able to warmly greet but a few and only nod in passing to others.

I watched a sky ablaze settle into deep smoke as mist arose, a wyrm insubstantial, engulfing ebony trees. I finally left, not quite half an hour later, as darkness obscured my already failing vision. You were still playing.

I paused on my way. "You play well."


The shadows cloaked your face. I don't know who you are. I don't need to; the music was enough.

With thanks,