Dawn, and the lake is still. "If only...", you think. But all is well with the beginning day, and the melody comes to you.
The waves roll in unceasing. Do you remember the seagulls? Did they ever sing like this?
Beside Bill's piano, a goldfish turns and flicks lazily in his bowl, impervious to the music and all forms of wistfulness.
Moonlight. The night flowers cluster together in surprising harmonies. They lead you away, and lead you home again.
A melody slips off its handcuffs and no-one even notices. It delivers its brief message--"I will always love you"--and slips back, its secret key intact.
The day lies hot and still. On the horizon a figure approaches--no, recedes.
THE GOLDEN STAIRCASE
A single note of melody descends, on rungs of harmony.
We saw the snowman melting, his scarf on the ground. But there he was at the window last night, beckoning to the children. They have followed him.
The chord machine fools you again. That's not a melody you hear--just the cogwheels in sweet harmony.
A snippet of melody trickles downstream by fits and starts, catching on this harmony and that. Birds wheel overhead.
Calmly and steadily the weaver spins his web, and your most perfect sadness is captured, there where the light streams through.