Poem for October 1

Cello Trees Tchaikovsky cello pours from the car radio this grey October morning, describing the clouds of vivid maples that whoosh by on 93. Great clumps of yellow, crimson, orange sound bow the trees swiftly near; they loom, are swallowed by fog. Woodwinds swirl in with a sudden low-flying crow.

Even with the bridge of verse, music tells any story better -- swirls to our core, opens that deep, numinous sky we (maybe) were born to fly.

Oliver Sachs, scholar of Bach and Darwin, wonders: 'Is music perhaps the way we would have communicated if we hadn't evolved speech - or the way we did before that?'

Imagine a humankind that sang the bright trees, queried crows, bartered by flute, harmonized with the stranger, danced and drummed home every harvest as it traveled its twining roads down the years.

Kate Thompson Tamworth