0153 Eine Kleine Morgenmusik

Dawn entered on time. The warning flash of lightning like a conductor’s upraised baton demanding thunder’s drumroll echoing round the mountains. Salzburg was never so musical. In his garden a pulsatilla flinched with joy. Beneath his fast pen, music wrote itself. In this house, the waterpipes made music with the cistern, doors made harmony with window catches; wet shoes with wooden chairs scraped back. Mathematics scrawled on walls sang number. Piano lessons were from youth to age, no need of cane for errant fingers. Yet too many masters still to come; for him never a false chord save in life.