Fiddle, flute, the Salamanca reel:
drops of rain slide into line
along the underside of a mossy rock
before falling in the unpredictable waves
that breaths play in the crevices
between the rocks
asking them to go: now, go now, go now.
Swallows on a wire striking up the reel,
fluff up as gusts, minute as golf balls,
lift their feathers so each flickering a different
daylight swoops off
as fingers darken the holes,
strings flash momentarily
and see, the music moving through the air.
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