tmbt: call and response
The whip-poor-will trills out into the meadows and the breeze sways around it, feathers frilling. The wait is nearly unbearable when – there it is – the response in a high warbled pitch. Again, he trills and again waits. This time, the response is sooner and closer.
The drum stamps out a beat and the bass falls in line. The cello sings a line of longing and the trumpet echos a sad refrain. The melodies ebb and flow and listen and talk and ride and follow. Music is nature in the hands of mathematical men.
You glow, I smile. You laugh, I sigh. You drop your eyes, I tilt my head. It is an intricate dance we have danced. It gets more intricate still. You ache, I am agonized. You well up, I am overcome. I shed tears and tears and tears and you collapse into sadness. We rise and we fall.
I write in response to a moving earth that stood still under me before you. I write to respond to the spinning spirals in this resonant chamber otherwise known as my chest. I write to undo, updo, redo, and rerun. I write to give, only I write in secret. I write to you everyday. Someday, you may have the chance to respond.