I came to a meadow so beautiful as to take my breath for a moment.

 

 The thought struck me that it was long knowing its own beauty, my presents mattered not.

 

Then I began to whistle the melody I just had made, each note seemed beyond my ability. pure in tone echoing back from a nonexistent surface never to be repeated. 

 

Would the valley note the passing of my moment?, a tune in perfect pitch? Would I have existed if not heard by the flowers that brought the joy, that brought the tune? 

 

Staying till the stars came, the night silent before the now unseen meadow the answer lilted into my being, seen from the far side of the meadow I am party to its total.

 

Captain of the Abigail