When it was foggy she made music. If she woke to a curtain of gray outside her window she put a coat on over her pajamas, grabbed her bassoon, still in its case, and walked down to the shore.
She could hear foghorns calling her as she got closer, echoing each other in perfect fourths. A plane might fly over her and she’d look up to try and guess where it was. It would be entirely hidden in the mist. Even that sound was magical when it was separated from its source; a humming growl shooting through the air on its own.
A block away from the shore she’d start to hear sea gulls harmonizing with the fog horns. They cawed and squealed. The foghorns continued their chanting, ignoring the sea gulls’ mocking chorus.
She sat on the bench she made music on and unpacked her bassoon, hearing the ocean. The waves rolled over each other and crashed onto the rocks, rumbling like a bass drum and shocking like a cymbal strike. As each wave dragged itself away from the beach it tinkled through the pebbles, chiming in the same register as the crying seagulls.
She could taste the fog. It was salty, like the seaweed smell filling her nose. Dew condensed on her skin and made the keys of the bassoon slippery. After this she’d take it home and wipe it down carefully. Loving it and thanking it for making music despite the salty fog.
It was a long while before she started to play. First she listened carefully to the song that the orchestra around her was already playing, finding where she fit in among the fog horns, waves, sea gulls, and occasional airplane solos. A few times a boat in the harbor would even join in, answering the fog horns with its own, far more bombastic, note.
When she did finally join the symphony already in progress she knew the tempo and the key. She added flourishes to the fog horn’s bass line and skipped between the competing sea gull harmonies. She tangled herself up in the trickling coda of the waves rolling back out to sea. All the while she took her cues from the wind, blowing constantly, bringing her bits of the music from far out at sea. It surged around her and pulled the sound out of her bassoon to carry it to the fog horns and sea gulls. It whistled through the rocks and moaned over the waves.
She started to feel the sun on her face and knew the concert was coming to an end. The dew began to evaporating. She caught the last salty drops on her lips with her tongue. She walked home with the sun at her back, encouraging her like a standing ovation.
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I could hear the awsome music recorded in your words! Thank you.
i know this symphony well and have written one of my own called voices in the dark
and salty tears! brava!