A whisper mere rustle of wind or an exhalation-how can it have consciousness yet
just below the threshold of human perception it voiced
thought vibrations, which her violin resonated with- disquieting, leaving her wondering who was out there, invisible but present or prescient perhaps decedent?
“Dad?”
her father an immigrant peasant his passion for music gifted to her- Dead Silence she sighs, picks up her bow and on her shoulder the violin’s “D” string quivered
