Her Scales Shine Like Music Read Free Page A

felt very old.
    *   *   *
    Morning on the sixth day brought another kind of present: wind, sometimes brisk, sometimes violent, and always unwelcome. Outdoors, my parka at full blast couldn’t keep up with the heat loss, and even indoors felt colder than it had at night. I made several expeditions, one to the latrine and another to the lake to fetch water, and came back shivering each time.
    I came up with seven more lines for the poem I’d tentatively titled “Bittersweet,” but discarded them all because none matched the feeling of the initial line. The notion of eating just for something to do had too much appeal, but while my food supply included an extra sixty days beyond the expected arrival time of the next crew, no grocery shops were currently available, and contingency supplies exist because contingencies happen.
    Why not, I asked myself, see how many push-ups you can do these days in an hour? When I’d taken silver for Canada in ski archery, my record had been 1,260. I’d worked to stay fit since then, but my edge had certainly dulled. Question was, had it chipped entirely off?
    I’d lost count somewhere past six hundred when the wind, which had been rattling my shelter and periodically moaning through the tent’s clever tangle of guy wires, stopped so suddenly, the hush felt as though someone had just died. My interest in push-ups dropped to a new low, and I headed outdoors to certify that I wasn’t that someone.
    In the utter stillness, the air felt relatively balmy, which levitated my spirits so much that I decided to get reckless and do something my bosses wouldn’t endorse: give this world a name. That kind of honor made an excellent bribe, and when my relief showed up, if I bandied my choice around, there’d be a slight but real chance the name would stick.
    â€œI dub thee … Sonnet!”
    After such a massive accomplishment, I felt worthy of taking the balance of the day off. A picnic, an alcoholic beverage, and a no-pressure writing session seemed in order.
    I fetched a blanket, whitepad and stylus, one of my three small bags of mixed nuts, and reconstituted some orange juice. Piano had provided me a single carton of vodka, really all I wanted, since I’m not much of a drinker. I opened the tab and added a splash to the juice.
    Settled on the blanket, snacks on one side and wimpy screwdriver on the other, I opened a fresh file on my whitepad, put on my best Moses-confronting-Pharaoh impression, and declaimed, “Let my verses flow!”
    And they did. Except, dammit, they kept driving me more nuts than my snacks by trying to rhyme. I didn’t understand my problem until I found myself humming a simple melody. How about that. The muse wasn’t bringing me a poem, but a song. With that realization, all the words fell into place like a creative implosion, and I scribbled furiously before any could slip away.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Déjà Vu
    Here it is again, what I’ve seen in the dark.
    Your eyes glow from within, your skin shoots out sparks.
    ( Chorus ):
    Just a hint that’s something’s been erased …
    Just a hint the path ahead has already been traced.
    A star falls out of the night in the shape of a flame.
    It casts off lightning in flight, spelling your name.
    ( Chorus )
    ( Bridge )
    As I move through the mist where all things exist,
    A strange tower comes into view.
    I step through the door, I’ve been here before,
    I’ve been here before with you. Déjà vu.
    How will I recognize you in a new form?
    Does the cyclone of time have a center, an eye of the storm?
    ( Chorus )
    No wonder I’d been blocked! For weeks, I’d been