White River

Fingers meet other fingers, touch at their fingertips and separate. Cold, fair fingers against softer, warmer ones. Music drifts note by note as these fingers flirt and dance, as some press and others give, as ripples cross a river of white. The cold fingers yield but only to a measured point; they are gentle, yet wary. A single pained touch and all harmony cracks with piercing finality. Webs of fractures in a sheet of ice, discord in a melody that consists of only chords, and so the muses of percussion, the fingers with which you so carelessly play, are unforgiving.


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