The first thing I learned about the violin
Was to move my bow with the other bows
Not to position my hands, or count the tempo
But that the dance of the bow on the strings
And the look of the group mattered more
Than the sounds we produced.
Making a note, and moving my bow
I sounded like a dying cat
Scratching a screen door
Hoping to be saved by my mom
Or certain death as I scritched and screamed
Out of time and out of tune.
But my bow moved perfectly.
