The 9-foot grand hangs suspended from titanium wires, a hundred feet above the mountain's crest. She stands with her hands lifted skyward, stretching her arms, back arched, watching the spectacle through squinting eyes as the sun pierces the sky in kaleidoscopic prisms. She sees it through till its gentle landing in the tufty alpine grass, meditating a gleaming sort of wonder, that two of the most beautiful things can exist in a single dimension at a single time. She pulls up the lopsided piano bench, smiles the most fundamental thank you to the person behind the wheel as the engine speeds away, and lowers her hands to the keys.
She closes her eyes as Chopin springs back to life, as the time is counted by the music- midday, beating sun to late afternoon to a violet sunset- and the Schumann concerto ushers in the stillness of dusk. The music is vitality, it shimmers, sparkles, shouts, speaks true conviction as words can't, and she narrates what it is to be alive from atop the mountain, and she is vitality, and the music is her.
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