The air that I breathe in must be held, releasing gradually so as to get to the last note, staggered at times, to allow others to catch theirs.
Following its dynamic, watching imperative, to get direction, mind the text, sing out Louise, lift heavy hearts. We must fit in seamlessly, and rise up all at once.
Inhale, hold, stagger to marry text and tone be the breath of God.
To return to the Maker measures of the gift we've been given, a fit place for a mast indeed.
A mast fit to a place, for the voyage home.
