Lilting tunes escaping

between stretching, spindly arms.

Slipping silently through the still night air.

creeping around leaves,

caressing curling edges

and dusty veins.

Up it rises

like smoke from a

smoldering fire.

Up it goes, tendrils reaching

for the sky.

Up it flies,

a little tune,

alone and pure,

just like a little whisper:

a taste,

a scent,

a breath,

of harmony.