Violin Virtuoso

The taut white lines of the bow moved along the strings on the violin, creating a clarity of sound that dispersed into the warm, sultry summer air.  Feeling flowed along the lines and slipped gently from the edges, swirling in tonal patterns, entering porous cells of skinny arms of rapt young listeners, their arms jangling with circles of gold.   It merged with all the chaos of emotional webs inside and one, only one,  broke through into freedom–complete joy.

His eyes were shut, dark lashes touching faint pouches under bottom lids.  A shock of gray hair arched down over one eyebrow and moved nearly imperceptively in the slight movement of air.  He wasn’t present in the room, adrift somewhere in the swirling notes surrounding him.  He was tall and thin but energy, soft energy, flowed from within to the tips of his fingers, and his body swayed slightly left to right and back again.  He was in the midst of creation, and we were the fortunate witnesses to his magic.

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