And when he slept, the freezing mountain air
plucked at his harp. Its strings were never still.
Sometimes when he awoke, he'd wait until
it was full light and wind dropped. He lay there
and listened to the music of the night
and learned there is no silence, none at all,
the wind in strings and trees, an owl will fall
and screech killing a shrew. When there's no sight
each noise a mystery; you hear the whole
and guess the parts. And when you come to make
your art, there's truth in learning how to fake
something that's close enough to soothe a soul.
Part learned, part heard, and parts that he'd invent,
a music larger than he could have meant.