15 a l t O The composer whittles his quill, fills it with opera, and writes me a note. “sing it,” he says, but even the river quivers at my timidity. He sees the problem, coats the pen again, cups my chin, then inks my mouth into a perfect oval until my solo echoes from the hills on an opposite shore. a river of voices floods me, reaches for a high note, pulls it down, and pounds it smooth against the bottom stones, then lets it bubble up, heavier with the weight of water. soon, I’m orchestrating the chorus with a stolen baton; but I hold the low tones too long, enjoy their rumbling in my body, annoying the composer who blackens the oval closed with his laden quill. I lick the sticky silence from my lips and taste where the music was. ...