In a wilderness, in some orchestral swing through trees, with a wind playing all the high notes, and the prospect of a string bass inside the wood, I, or someone like me, had a kind of vision. As the person on the ground moved, bursting halos topped first one tree, then another and another, till the work of sight was forced to go lower into a dark lair of fallen logs and fungi.
His was the wordless death of words, worse for he remembered exactly where the words were on his tongue, and before that how they fell effortlessly from the brainpan behind his eyes. But the music continued and the valley of forest floor became itself an interval in a natural melody attuned to the wind, embedded in the bass of boughs, the tenor of branches, the percussion of twigs.
He, or someone like him, laughed at first, dismissing what had happened as the incandescence of youthful metabolism, as the slight fermentation of the last of the wine, or as each excuse of love. Learning then the constancy of music and of mind, now he takes seriously that visionary wood where he saw his being and his future underfoot and someone like me listening for a resolution.