volando

Charango, guitar and a long arc of percussion wove a waiting forest clearing into which his wooden flute's music alit. Never had I heard a simple flute played with such sweetness and clarity of inflection. I had to keep my eyes closed while he was playing (even though he was in fact beautiful to look at, flowing black hair and all), because with sight it was just another afternoon in the desert, a crowd of people dancing up dust under a big cottonwood. Without -- or rather, within, inside that spontaneous sonic unsighted space, the music's essence portalled another world. A winding path opened through vinelaced primordial trees, sunshot illumination filtered slowly down, and a giant greengold butterfly waved sinuous wings above and ahead of me. I left all the world behind just to know where that butterfly would go, and in the moment even that wish vanished: it was enough just to follow (feet not touching the ground, at times) and watch its luminous lilt catch the treelight now on one wing, now the other...