Who would have thought
that even the sound of children
tuning their instruments
could conjure images of dew soaked fields,
its mist stirred only as the sun passes its hand across the not yet cut grass,
wild still
and untouched
except,
perhaps by a fawn,
brave enough to venture out from the brush
and into a harmony lost to so many.

I almost didn’t recognize it at first,
the music that is,
and the hand that played it.

For the first time in three years she spoke it,
and it became her native tongue.
Each note taking tenure as the melody unfolded along her bow,
while each string sighed and eased each note,
giving lease and measure
to a heaven most of us know nothing about.

~Rich Robinson, Ally’s Dad