One or Two Things Sacred to Sorrow

Coleman Hawkins doing that thing with his sax: high and lonely as a kestrel twirls on thermals, sorting files of sound with a singular finger,now alighting in pools of light, hovering then fixed like whirring wings of the insect glazed in serous amber but dreaming of oxygen: Sound leading a mind into that sobriety of thought which poises the heart. Sound like that, holding and giving out never. Sound quickened with desire. Sound the benefit of nature in taut bolts of time, rich polychrome threads, count: Two-sixty. Sound blots out the violence of affliction bringing it home lonely but good, letting it bend:We had much more reason being winged ones to recollect than forget.