the high G# was born on a Sunday morning.
It came out a little early, (whoops)
but it's mother,
a soprano, standing much too short and singing much too high,
always held the philosophy better early than late.
which worked quite well with appointments

but like the birth of a child
the birth of a note is a ******, messy thing.
even the mother looks on at in disgust
the audience does not look at all.

it strains against the folds of her throat,
while she squints at the little dots fitted in between lines.
(notes laced into the pages of music,
like slightly old whisky into watered down punch)
the choir director arms circle wildly,
motioning:"breathe, breathe"

Finally it breaks through,
cracking,
whipping
out of her mouth--
a sharp cry.


Through her trembling lips and chin she smiles,
victorious
it is alive.

the note's heart beats,
once, twice, three times, and after the fourth,
it dies.