Getting set to record the cello, percussion and piano trio (Cantantes Metallis) and a solo piano piece (Whose Fingers Brush the Sky) of David Fulmer.
He was evidently into this poem, “The Wind”, of Emily Dickinson:
Of all the sounds despatched abroad,
There’s not a charge to me
Like that old measure in the boughs,
That phraseless melody
The wind does, working like a hand
Whose fingers brush the sky,
Then quiver down, with tufts of tune
Permitted gods and me.
When winds go round and round in bands,
And thrum upon the door,
And birds take places overhead,
To bear them orchestra,
I crave him grace, of summer boughs,
If such an outcast be,
He never heard that fleshless chant
Rise solemn in the tree,
As if some craven sound
On deserts, in the sky,
Had broken rank,
Then knit, and passed
In seamless company.