CONTINUUM

Continuum is a dialogue among friends set in verse.  There are often several responses to a given thought.

As time went on, Troika became the preferred conversation. Troika is the combination of Haiku, Cinquain and Tanka.

Continuum is now in its fourth year.

Everyone comes and goes.

Like the song says, "A bronze man, still can, tell stories his own way" .

And as Groucho and Andrew have said, "Please quote me as being mis-quoted."

Last addition 04 January 2006

Quiet first,
breathe slowly.

Old pain is singular:
of that isolated
Time.

past that,
nothing.

we all hold
old pain.

so What!

big Deal!

bring out the sand
Rake and Comb
your small

Garden

LOUD AND CLEAR

Loud and Clear!

In your ear,
where fear
is near.

Where we hold dear
what brings a tear

in quiet rage
to set the stage

for finding peace
in our old age.

LAST LIGHT

last light through the trees
lasting for just long enough
to note its passing

reminding me you
passed this way so long ago
lighting my long life

your presence so brief
and the memory so long
lasting with such light

my hands grow older
so much to touch with so much
time, so little time

In the human state,
a clock has hands
and kneads
time

JABBERWOCKY FOR A GAMMA RAY

An appledab of mab is fab,
quoth she
and quoited her querls.

But every sylph likes hilph
(hee hee)
and cuts a merry whorl.

The briney bog of Mog sagog
she say
and huddled her head.

Three weavers found
the threads unwound
and, quarking, slipped under the bed.

Spring mincing in, early
Artifice and pretend,
Looking for wind
And its windflowers but
still wearing boots
Of leather, high heels, mud.

SPRING HAS SPRUNG

spring has sprung,
the grass has riz,
I wonder where,
the birdies is.

the sky is blue,
the grass is green,
we sometimes
make ourselves
be mean
to

take the true,
and make it seem
like others
should take
on our dream
and

then we can
adjust our sight
and just pretend
to
not take flight.

THE ORCHID MAN

I believe in the orchid man.
I am no longer sure of the gods of the West
defined by blood and calling for war.
I believe in the orchid man,
who preserves delicacy and beauty.
As mortality slips by, I step aside
the dictatorship of words
or images of sacred savagery.
But I believe in the orchid man--
saving, coaxing life
unwilling to let the brute have his day.
I believe in the orchid man
who believes in life and practices hope more than other gods I have met.

AN ART RECITATIVE

So these three muses are sitting together
in a bar.
Muses, you know,
they dress weird;
really provocative,
but weird.

Anyway, while talking about
clients and all,
Clytemnestra blurts out
(they have weird names)
"Why are they all so
NeeDee?"
"What's the BiG deel?"

Argentenio counters,
"FeerFactoR!" "IdenTiTeeCrysis"!
and several more
Blah-blahs.

Blog, (no gender distinction)
eying the other two slowly,
-- sighs.

To Rick
July 20, 2004

It is never a good day to die.
Children stir in troubled sleep
In the thrall of approaching dreams.
Women stir their coffee, eyes blackened and red,
Wondering at the streaks in the windows.
A stitch has dropped from the fabric
With the terrible consequence of incompletion.

It is never a good day to die.
Young men wrench their sinews to the steel, Stubble faces slack and dripping.
Young women apply lipstick and leave messages on the phone to invisible past friends.
Street merchants sell trinkets and tin rings And foreign toys made of paper and balsa wood.
We are physical beings with physical minds
Our everyday doings are encapsulated by flesh.

It is never a good day to die.
Sheep bawl in a distant meadow
Under skies tufted with their wool.
Starlings raise bright alarm at disturbances;
The harmonics of red-winged blackbirds
Vibrate the still, tall timothy-grass.

And small animals burrow in the
Deceiving cool earth and under.

We are like them and unlike.
We do not seek the earth:
It rises to claim us and
With life around but not within,
we are obedient but burn with resentment.
It is never a good day to die.

THE BRONTE'S ATTIC
(for Mark Evan Johnston)

Another Saturday
night.
Emily, tight-lipped and
still.
Charlotte, (well you guessed it)
always in
charge.
(their private joke)
and once again
in the attic.

"This shall be thy lullaby,
Rocking on the stormy sea, stormy sea"

(yeah right)

"Though it roar in thunder wild,
sleep stilly sleep, my dark-haired child..

Sleep... (whoa hold your horses, Newt!)

Not yet, not yet, not yet.

MONHEGAN ISLAND, MAINE
(for Andrew Wyeth)

Andrew came for the light
and gave us the crippled,
backlit beauty
of the long grass.

"Christina's World" is protected
by ten miles of six foot seas
and sometimes sun
and sometimes not.

- However -
(?) She really wasofhis
other(s) light(s).

S(he),
hermits of Mannana,
unison cripples.

The Light - his light - their light - light.

I tried to walk
in Christina's shoes,
but could not,
she could not.
My grass green as hers
Wyeth gold,
A thousand spears
Softened
Are my bed.
Here, ant armies
carry out their duties
to the last.
Here, beetles
with rainbows
on their backs,
small creatures
I have no name for,
citizens of a plentiful
civilization
living underfoot.
A white moth
pauses on my arm,
the cloth
that covers my hip
slips
fresh and grass-stained.

Such bright longing, Christina!
Such incandescent angst.
Hide in plain sight.
Allow the untroubled grasses
Their climactic conversation
With the sun;
The burbling brook its run to the sea;
The beetles their tiny triumphs.
The timeless tumult goes on
And all have their place
Except you.

TO LEN

and so you start the
conversation with your
laugh.

the Same laugh;
the many years
Laugh,
Your Laugh.

The Highlanders' laugh,
the wonderful naive
Laugh of
how we brought back
and bring out
our being young stuff,

nice stuff,
that stuff.

Laughs of the same stuff that
made us laugh then

and recounting synchronous
adventures (and relationship stuff)

Still does.

Then, as now,
we saw images
of truth,
despite the fog
of our learning...

and the years
remind us
that our laughter
is the key
to foggy vision;

may we always
remember
laughter...

O it is monstrous
That explosion of mirth
That crashes thru my crafted cells of
Sameness.
A heaving breath, and tears so like
The keenest loneliness,
The sound an outstretched hand.

TownVillageHamlet;

MossFernFunghi
Among THE looming conifers.

the OLD ones,
Towered!
Then, lack of roots within rock;
no longer.

now

THE new ones,
within and thriving by
the OLD ones,

weave and
interBe.

Enough already!
Our dangling conversation has dangled long enough,
Too long - No excuses
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.
Wannabe answers the challenge.
The challenge to reconnect and risk
Making a fool of himself among friends
A risk that pales in comparison to not joining
Those who care after years of separation,
Who know and share our foolishness and fear,
Who still dare to eat a peach and
Will not wear the bottoms of their trousers rolled,
or Part their hair behind.

We are all one in mea
and our harmonized culpa is the key
to opening that part of our spirit
that we fear the most.

Then we listen to our quiet voice.
A distant windchime in the new autumn air.

Gain from loss.
Friends the in-between time.
The lover his safety.
The master His mortality.
Such a gift, to ruin the expectation
That masks the road to death.
Such a gift.

(se)

TINE

you have no
connection with
my Fender Rhodes piano:
One heavy haul up many, many stairs
in Brooklyn,
Many, many years ago.

Those Tynes, (always out of tune)
were brought into TUNE by slight adjustments
over coarse springs,
slid over
coarse wires,
and then
came MUSIC.

That is how it happens.

Life AND Music.
life is MUSIC.

You, wanting so much to sing,
so open and so closed.

SING, little bird.

(lm)

To My Friend, Will Stoddard
Now With Alzheimer's

When you tie a fly, Will said,
You must be sure that it is
As close to the real thing as
You can make it. It takes time
And patience, Will said.
You must be sure that the feathers
Or fur, or slivers of white and colors
Are true to life. It depends, he said,
On the season and the cycle of life
On the river. Sometimes you imitate
A May fly or the larvae that float
On the current. You must take care
Too that the thin, almost invisible
Line that binds the hook to the lure
Is tight and wound evenly.
No loose ends, but tight and perfect,
Will said, and I believed him.

When you cast a fly rod, Will said,
You must follow a natural motion. You
Cannot force the line from the reel.
Instead, a slow flexing arc that
Lets the rod do the work. You must
Take it easy, Will said, and let line
And rod act like the branch
Of a willow, pushed and pulled by wind.
Control the line, Will said,
And release only a little at a time
Gradually until the length of line
Is right. Release the line
With care and not suddenly and
You can place the fly exactly,
Precisely in the spot where you wanted,
Will said, and I believed him.

When you fish for trout, Will said,
You cannot do it from the shore.
You must find the deep pools that
Are beneath the rapids or in a still
dark place beneath an overhanging elm.
You must go where they are, Will said,
And wade into the stream until
The water is dangerously close to
The top of your waist high wading boots.
You must use everything you know of
Flies, the season, the coolness of the stream
And the time of day. Evening is best, Will said.
You cast the fly to the spot you have chosen
And you wait, playing out line,
Reading the current. You must wait
For a time but then cast in another direction,
Perhaps closer to the rapids.
You will catch a trout, Will said,
And many times, waiting, casting, waiting,
He caught large brown trout or smaller brook trout:
He caught them and then he dipped them
Back into the water and let them go.
Will said that they should go on their way, free.
I believe him.

This next section is devoted to traditional Japanese poetry formats, Haiku, Cinquain and Tanka. Each is strictly defined by line and syllable counts. The discipline develops the integral beauty and harmony of each piece and its part in the whole of the conversations

(se)

haiku

Weary of day, she
glances, anticipating
the softness of night.

cinquain

Rainfall
against the wind.
Drifting, shifting patterns,
bright kalaidoscope becoming
dark sky.

tanka

With questions answered
her hands relaxed, palms showing.
Soft breathing, eyes closed.
Then, bending her neck slightly
waited for the healing hands.

(jh)

haiku

Warm rain, and his hand,
and his sly returning smile
are all she needs now.

cinquain

Thunder
crackles and booms
its electric heartbeat
into the faces of keening
children.

tanka

It began slowly,
the palms pressed against the curve
of her cool hard pain.
She was fully unprepared
for the explosion of light.

haiku

Irises open
white and lavender. Dawn comes
with smooth, swift surprise.

tanka

High on the sea cliff
freshly matted grasses bounce
back green in the wind.
Far below us white waves roar,
long rolled sea shelf, long slow swell.

tanka

Barely open eyes
responding to the sunlight.
Reflecting waters
rising, falling, in the dance
with a partner not yet found.

haiku

Wing on wing they rise
singing in bright ecstacy
like doves on high coo

Leuchtende Naechte
in tiefschwarzen Tagen
kuenden die Sinnlosigkeit allen Seins

haiku

Love is the warming
Embracing more than I am
Guides you when I'm gone

(se)

(se)

haiku

Then an awareness,
the sudden gentle moment
of a beginning.

cinquain

Last light
lingers in deep
oranges, extinguishing
anxious thoughts of things we cannot
control.

haiku

Our moments, fragments
of encapsulated sighs
gone before and now.

(cw)

haiku

time goes by - it's fall
the leaves turn red, deep blue sky
bright light, peacefulness.

(se)

tanka

Anticipation
of the adventure ahead,
of roads untraveled,
of open waters flowing,
ebbing: currents and crossroads.

(se)

cinquain

Petals
casting shadows
one upon the other,
wating for quiet closure in
autumn.

(se)

haiku

You and I were one.
There is no difference now.
Only what time does.

(se)

haiku

Stars in alignment
bring awakening and now
letting go is hard.

haiku

The air seems thinner
on my walk home this evening.
Your chair is empty.

(lm) (bvn)

haiku

On this perfect day
The only shadow is that
It is so fleeting.

haiku

sunrise, noon, sunset,
desert, sea, woods, grasses: all
have lives of their own.

Jared Hoke gave us the essential word for the next section.

The integration of traditional Japanese formats, Haiku, Cinquain and Tanka in sequence, express a single thought.

This thought we call Troika.

It is a Russian word that has other, more mundane meanings.

We use Troika as the cardinal number that is the finality of one plus one plus one.

Unity in the sum of the parts.

(se)

Troika

(haiku)

When expectations
cease, we accept our gifts and
receive gratefulness.

(cinquain)

I spoke
to her so bright.
Tonight in cloudless skies
the same she of last night's moment
with you.

(tanka)

At dusk, whispering,
to you flying with the moon,
I stood by the hedge.
And you, alert as always,
responded "yes", where are you?

(jph)

Troika

(haiku)

We accept our faults
And His power to forgive.
Then we, too, forgive.

(cinquain)

The light
burns thru the crust
of forgetting and time.
The scab's torn from the grizzled flesh.
Sweet pain!

(tanka)

A slight breeze passes.
My urgent face feels your words.
The bower's leaves stir
And I, lonely for now,
Whisper "Soon, my heart. Soon".

Troika

Sometime before dawn,
when the darkness is less deep,
I sensed quiet rain.

In sleep
still, yet aware,
I listened to the wind
whispering in the fallen leaves,
your name.

Then the memory,
curving beach and vivid moon,
dark protected thoughts
released to the gentle winds
lose their importance.

White mold on the leaves.
It is time for the garden
to return to earth.

Maple
leaf drifting down,
sinews of yellow, red,
with random path, but direction
certain.

Walking in wet grass
while afternoon is ebbing,
finally knowing
the right time for closure is
when the heart opens.

response

When autumn comes
The leaves
Should twist and turn
In passion so unrestrained
As never said good bye.

A night sound too close,
too unknown, so high and clear,
begins the goodbye.

Rosebud,
bending slightly,
done, yet not full open,
the harbinger of tears for the
morning.

Crickets no longer
fill the night with harmony.
Their season of call
passes through the quietness,
softly into a new day.

In Autumn mornings
often the air is so still.
We look at our lives.

Wanting
simplicity,
we hope we can somehow
recall spiritual moments in
echoes.

When we accept pain
as process and our guidance,
we feel only peace.
Songbirds on the wing again.
Long sunsets seem so soothing.

Pink roses climbing,
anticipating sunlight
still in October.

Morning
shadows in high
contrast hasten my step.
Without quiet conversation,
anxious.

Answers and questions.
Water in surface tension.
Worries are only
feathers thrown into the air.
Expect the unexpected.

response

That a rose
can still climb in October,
and your step
respond to the contrasts
of morning;
aware of answers
and questions detached;
marks vision
and wonder
prevailing,
even as winter descends.

Anyway you look
at it, truth is difficult.
Saying it matters.

There are
alternatives.
Black is white, fire is rain,
a total eclipse of the sun
tonight.

Singing quietly
just a simple melody,
almost a whisper,
every note more softly,
until the cadence is all.

Above the highway
ducks drift in loose formation,
stark against the sky.

Below
headlights streaming,
blurring while traveling
back to homes where other concerns
await.

The passing of day,
simultaneous for both
formations; equal
and functional reactions
to their life continuance.

Waning crescent moon.
Strong winds stride from the Northwest
shaking my window.

Awake
in dark hours,
alert to the surging
current of longing that I feel
tonight.

The time draws closer,
choosing the same path, always
the drawing of breath,
wanting for only
patience, appreciation.

She, small and
Alone on the pier, watching
Me leave with the tide.

Lonely.
I'd gone to Greece
To find something she was.
She interrupted my vain search
With love.

The sun shone brighter
While her smile surrounded my
Fumbling want, her
Soft hands so pliant, so warm.
And then, my ship sailed.

response

She, so small,
alone on the pier, and I,
with the wake, leaving.

Summer,
twenty years old,
she coolly watching me paint,
lovely, in her floppy straw hat
in Greece.

We went to breakfast.
She spoke little English, I
no Greek whatever.
Eyes, locked hands, lingua d'amour.
The memory yet again.

Upon arriving
late at the same time, I called
your name and you smiled.

Our years
together and
apart blurred into one
moment. All I could remember
was love.

If love is not the
answer, I misunderstood
the question. Your heart,
your spirit, and mine remain,
even though time has changed us.

Red is first,
Amongst the dappled seas of green.
The air becomes crisp.

Then, the
Riot of orange,
So obviously beautiful.
Like bees we are drawn to richness,
To drink.

Youth passes quickly.
Ochre oaks bank the fire with
Age. Time presses on.
The green disguise fades, then dies.
See what was always there!

Response

Among our busy
lives, daily tasks and stresses,
red leaves lose their grip.

Falling
slowly, swept by
sudden gusts they reverse
the inevitable call of Earth
too late.

This closing season,
mirroring migrating geese
passing over lakes
among riotous oranges
will pass into quiet soon.

Response

Colors among the colors,
we stand among the leaves;
knowing their home
and the strength that set them free.

A peace there is in that;
and roots-
deeper than we may have thought,
closer to the forest,
where it all began.

Response

Slate-gray September:
Dawn -- heaven heaves rain water;
Noon -- jewels on the grass.

Waiting. Rain today.
Percussive interruptions
on the window pane.

Outside,
waves of traffic
splashing through afternoon.
Inside, mouse clicks and firewire hum.
Waiting.

Chin on folded hands,
breathing deeply to fend off
the second guessing.
Wishing for the encounter,
however it goes. Waiting.

After the rain, hope.
The new sky blue, with soft clouds.
Trees blend their colors.

Waiting,
now a texture,
woven intricately,
filled with nuances, mystery,
allure.

Inspiring sunsets
in all seasons, each with its
own unique power.
Some with a soft glow, others
pale, cold, remote, beautiful.

Response

Back-to-back equals,
Is there more than the body?
Ah! You spied my soul.

As we pass from sleep,
first thoughts are simply feelings,
and words have no place.

Our eyes
cannot adjust
to our surroundings yet.
Our senses coalesce into one
purpose.

To reunite us
with our essence, so fragile!
Diaphanous wings
of a white moth hovering
much too close to a candle.

Office corridors.
Arteries of our work life.
Lifelines to success.

Daily
sameness, varied
in competitive stance,
measuring our Mark in the world
of work.

Last light through the trees,
sameness, throughout the seasons.
The passing of time
absorbing all that we are,
as day passes into night.

The space between light
and shadow, a netherworld,
home to our worry.

Measured
in quarks and miles,
completely elastic,
rebounding with echoes, speaking
in tongues.

But if we whisper
softly, kindly, allowing
that same space for our
hearts to open, chaos ends.
A small shoot breaks earth in Spring.

The recent eclipse of the moon was an event that Larry Mohr and I wrote about with similar passion.

(lm) (se)

Lunar Eclipse

In the valley where those before have fallen
like chips of grey flint,
the headstones are marked with moss
flecked with charcoal: rubbings on a Sunday afternoon.
Only then do the living and the dead confess and converse.
Memory is the graven image on which we write
On which we try to dream.
It is the safest way for all concerned,
one least disaffected by hope and expectation.
Parents gift their works to waiting children
hanging framed on the walls
hanging framed in their hearts.

And left to themselves at night, the stones and celibate dead
Do not move under a blood red moon.

Troika

A lunar eclipse
of this full October moon
comes without warning.

Shadows,
elongated,
indigo, sprawl across
the night grass. Cloudless skies above,
watch them.

Then the balance tips.
The dark arc slides over its
hypnotic, glowing
face. Our primal fears release.
Chaos becomes catharsis.

Windy November
day under cotton cloud skies.
Reflections bouncing.

Green leaves,
still glossy to
the end, chatter, whisper.
Their conversations rise and fall;
then still.

In that quiet space
I look away, unfocused.
Past, present, future
are speaking with the same voice.
I try so hard to listen.

Troika

But the wind o'erwhelms.
Geography's voice sweeps strong
From the northwest. Hear!

Trees bend
In obeisance.
The chattering leaves swirl
And collect in leeward corners.
Fall's done.

Indoors, my fire speaks
In explosive language
With quiet, calming
Little pops and wheezes. Yes!
My face preens in it's hot breath.

The Fire, slow to light,
making us wait to lean back
and speak without words.

The joy
never changes.
Always the same calling,
soft and low and straight to the heart,
Music.

Later, suddenly
the leaves called out in passion
and the Fire rose to
high flames from embers. Passage.
The road will walk us.

New to the cold air,
our faces tighten and brace
against the morning.

Nights have
lost their softness.
The moon, still mystery,
is now subtle and evasive.
Distant.

This is the time we
feel vulnerability.
We protect ourselves,
look at our reflection, but
the mirror is unsilvered.

The long walkers who
wrote the stories of their times,
and of their passions

Ignite
them still in us.
Cave paintings, hieroglyphs
Buddha, Bible, Koran, Allah,
Jesus;

Abstract in nature,
definite in their impact
on our sense of place.
In music, the perfect fifth
strikes infinite overtones.

The acknowledgement
of the shrines cannot bring back
loss to the living.

Lost lives,
now following
different paths, unite
in the element we all are;
water.

Every drop still
is with us. Tears uncontrolled
bring us much comfort.
The saline taste on the lip,
poigniant with all memories.

November sunlight:
clear, calm and deliberate;
slices through the chill.

The first
cut is deepest.
Our hair thrown back, eyes closed,
smiling in the brightness; the blade
crosses.

Resonating pain
that is so familiar.
Singular, quiet.
Bloodless at first, then flowing
our lives away, then to us.

Troika

If we put away
memories we think we need,
then where should they go?

Stash them
in a closet?
Stack them in the woodpile
for burning in winter for warmth?
Maybe.

Another thought is
they are just older siblings.
What they were for us
goes away when they leave home.
We stand by the open door.
(se)

Troika

Telling our story
from the outside inside out
builds kindly regard.

Stirring
old memories,
imagining anew,
affirming, letting go, healing
lifetimes.

Wondering out loud.
Embracing grace each moment.
Courageous heartbeats.
All the while not knowing but
choosing to believe anyway.
(bmd)

Soft glow filters through
barren branches, warmth in the
cold of December.

Singing
the plain songs of
centuries past; the hopes
of present and future become
as one.

Later, the ocean
sky. Brilliant, striated
oranges and pinks splash
quiet joy and peacefulness.

Family. Love is
unquestioned, but difficult
sometimes. Maybe all

the time.
Love is the word
that we have trouble with.
Connection that won't go away
is love.

Care without reason
is love. Love is so easy.
Trust is love. Quiet
thoughts are love we give ourselves,
when we give ourselves to love.

Bright sunlight and warmth.
The bleak midwinter of past
years a distant thought.

Honor
to lasting friends.
Joy, as we look away
and remember the essential
moments.

Anticipation.
In newness we integrate
our spirits into
ourselves again. This blessing
is fragile and requires care.

As life's adventure
proceeds, younger selves emerge,
changed by memories.

Playful.
Now reflecting
on strivings that were the
pattern and the structure of our
past lives.

A rush of fresh air
flowing through an open door.
The attic, emptied.
The rooms vacant, echoing.
Now it's time to smile.

Response

The grey-painted stairs
Rise steeper than the walnut treads below,
The walls cracked, neglected.

Empty.
Room upon room
With naked iron heat
Now cold, as are the glossy floors.
All gone.

Below, ancestors
Primly observed niceties
On Persian carpets.
Light shimmers, the chimes strike.
Time's up. "Burn it down!".

Rocks with white blankets,
symmetrically random.
Ice encased branches.

Walking
up a quiet
mountain path in winter.
Listening. Footsteps following
behind.

With subtle cadence,
muted crunch and squeak of snow
start to crescendo,
Rhythms collide! Then words have
their time as we pass in rhyme.

GodBeWithYouNow.
The forever we wish for
is just a moment.

Then it
become eons.
Then it becomes seconds.
Then it becomes hands drawing out
the pain.

In point and out point;
obvious in the structure
of our declared pain,
offers closure and the end of
worrying what we should do.

I'm gonna sing 'til
the spirit moves in my heart.
Gonna sing 'til my

body
just falls apart.
I'm gonna sing for the
chance that unity may start, I'm
gonna

sing for this blessing
now. I'm gonna sing to the
spirit. Sing to our
spirits. We are one spirit.
So sing for this blessing now.

Your body breaks. Not
a surprise, not expected,
but now accepted.

Waiting
becomes present
tense. You made your wedding
dress on the train. He waits for you.
Your time

does not have tense. His
time calls you. We say goodbye.
We were your future
our ages ago. We say
goodbye together to you.

Her last drop rippled
away. Breath and hearing the
last to go. Stubborn.

His last
alone. Among
strangers. His unspoken
courage of War years in photos,
letters.

We pass them and breathe.
She sings "Summertime, and the
livin' is easy".
Rings and ashes now are one.
Our living room is so big.

Hidden in pockets,
warmth awakens. Then, stretching,
yawning and squinting,

begins.
We are much too
anxious to be done with
Winter. When our internal fires
ignite,

the stuff of our dreams
goes up in flames too quickly.
Keep them smoldering.
Keep the coals really red hot.
The fire is low, but still there.

Our minds twist and turn.
Everyday it happens!
Leaves swirl in the wind.

Sudden
gusts interrupt
our still mind. Just when we
think we have it all figured out,
the wind

changes direction.
Leaves fall then scatter away.
Harmony in unison.
Pure tone with no vibrato.
Every voice, one voice