I drag the kitchen chair out, all the way out to the exact middle of the field, new-mown. And place myself there, primly. I sit tall back taunt, and tight, and straight. I do not slump beneath this wincingly blue October sky. I am first chair among wind instruments, and we are the symphony: this openness, the trees round the rim and I. Today, today we are performing expanse and hunger in a minor key. I sit at the hub of the whirl — while all about me great patches of sound begin to tearout from here. They arch and plummet like fierce storms upon the sun, and the air is pocked by this full wall, falling. The trees huddle and recoil from one another like whores on a streetcorner. They are jarred every instant by the clanging cold. They clack and moan in reedy tones. Voices rust away into the wind. My fingers howl like hounds running blind, nosing the wind — tracking the grass which uncoils mockingly into a hiss behind the wind. A fly unzips the blue noise of the sky, that great tipped ocean hanging over us — a thawing yowl — a god’s great wound of wandering miseries and visions. The sinuous emptiness drains down to the wood and the forest, stained whispers and shakes like a disciple in a dream. And it comes to trill the red wire in my bone. Then pares itself away, punctually, like a soldier, like the moon. Five rooks rise in a black, ragged shout and run upon the sky like a flag. A hawk scream shutters the sky, then turns its back and flaps away. There is something familiar in its claws. It leaves the land so homeless. And, off its haunches, from the far shore of paleness, winter comes cracking its old bones across the sky.