Trafika Europe 1 - Northern Idyll

At Sixty

That line where birds, exhausted, cross a threshold, winter at their back, or the joyous din of summer before them. Where, along the sixtieth parallel, the resonant voice of the fiddle trembles on a northern palette. Hanging on in to three score years is listening for that line, another season of song. It’s pushing against the door, lifting the latch, taking the fiddle down and tuning what’s left to make the notes. Fingers reach further, grope gently the missing string, tempt out the melody.


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