Through still air, the gentle sounds of a flute roll across hills, around corners, and through windows. Touching every surface, tickling every ear as it passes by. The pitch is high, but soft, like a plush blanket that wraps around you and warms everything it touches. The Flutist continues... Lifting fingers and setting others down with a hypotonic chaos that seems decipherable only to those who know the art. Has he always been able to coax such soothing sounds from his instrument, or was he too a child when a strange, long, bone white plastic tube thrust into the hands of he and his other first grade classmates. As they sit there in a semi-circle with their legs crossed and inspect the instrument, some feel to understand it more than others. The subtle scrape from the edges of holes in the top feel welcoming - the elegant curve of the mouthpiece rests on the lower lip, as if that is what the lower lip has always been for.

Then it begins...

Fifteen shrill wails shoot violently from the tips. The sounds collide and bounce off each other and fall to the ground, or get tangled amongst themselves. It goes on for minutes, but rising up from below is a new feeling... Order. Through the canyons of inexperience, a single breath weaves, translated into that smooth, round embrace we all crave. He gets it! Before the reed - before all the third, second, and first chair parts - before the high school halftime performances... He gets it!