April Bernard reads
Beagle or Something
You need Flash to listen to this track.
The composer’s name was Beagle or something, one of those Brits who make the world wistful with chorales and canticles and this piece, a tone poem or what-have-you, chimes and strings aswirl, dangerous for one whose eye lids and sockets have been rashing from tears. The music occupied the car where I had parked and then sat, staring at a tree, a smallish maple, fire-gold and half-undone by the wind, shaking in itself, shocking blue morning sky behind, and also the trucks and telephone wires and dogs and children late to school along Orange Street, but it was the tree that caused an uproar, it was the tree that shook and shed, aureate as a shaken soul, I remembered I was supposed to have one—for convenience I placed it in my chest, the heart being away, and now it seems the soul has lodged there, shaking, golden-orange, half-spent but clanging truer than Beagle music or my forehead pressed hard on the steering wheel in petition for release.