September 4, 2000: Insightful flight

The box filled with unwritten songs sits waiting to be admired—seashells of the flying type…a shield that once kept them warm. I hold memories of their travel—for no other reason than to admire. Some chirps and chatters are perfectly shaped—most have been left in the rain. I stop to listen—taking up space, holding on as long as I can…I see flight. I feel the valley below, a lake to the side. One piece of music takes me to caverns of simplicity. I sit watching, hoping to learn…maybe stay longer. I can’t help but wonder if just anyone collects? Do they return to smell the plastic bag while hearing the seagulls crying? Do they touch the multitudes of color with one simple thought? In my music box…they sit—seashells from the flying type.