The Birth of Music

The old man was no longer a hunter, But he would not stoop to women’s chores. A storm was brewing as he sought Shelter in a round cave. Soon he had a fire going but he preferred To stay near the entrance and listen. He did not know yet what music was But he could tell the difference Between each sound that echoed outside. The wind was strong that began like a rigadoon But reached its forte in tone and pitch, A crescendo that reached its apex as it climbed the hills. There it hit stones and sent them down crashing Like the sound of synchronized drums. Slowly the wind lost its force and vibrated into a cadence, Leading to an herbaceous plain as it wandered off Like a soft funeral march. The old man heard all and knew what was to come. Promptly a bird began to sing to the now calm night, A mellifluous sonata and then subliminal silence. A breeze whipped up, a silky serenade that like an arpeggio It grew ductile but strong as it flew amongst the trees, Leaves replying with a trill till the moon came up, Shadows dancing on the now calm groove. All was at peace. The old man picked up his reed. Someday he will learn And emulate the sounds around into a coherent aria. 18 December 2020