Cello Sonata in F, Number 3
"A sparrow of Beijing"

I Set amidst the nettles grows the rose.

Awaken to the terrors of the kingdom of noise, a sparrow, once nested in
her tree is alarmed by the crunch of machines and the smell of smoke.  It
is the forest, it is the forest, it is the forest, and it is buring black
with acrid smoke.

Forgetting roost and home and all else the startled sparrow takes to
wing, and reaching up and up finally sees below that a dragon of smoke and
belching cloud is consuming the forest - swallowing it whole and reaching
up the side of the jagged mountian side, and winds his way around it.

Fleeing to fast flight the sparrow sours, only to see below a tapestry of
flattened fields, and huge block buildings spiked with towers that cosume
the air.  The clouds do not bring life and rain, but chocking haze.  And
even the sun at midday is tinged as a orange eye.

It seems the land is alive with ands that chew the life out of the hills,
and leave behind flattened fields of greening rice, no place for a sparrow
to roost.

But then up, up farther on, come neatly checkered rows of pear and plum -
orchards that stretch and make a forest taken to marching regiment - all
uniform and sprawling over the land.

But there is no sleep to be found here, and then the sparrow spies a
distant stone, of gardens and gleaming eves, and glittering wings from out
of its eaves they come - the other sparrows that have found the summer
palace that resides outside Beijing.


II Lullabye to a day in Beijing

Imagine if you might a street at the cusp of dawning, with the husks
of twilight still holding court.  The street sweepers emerge to hose the
boulevard and brush away the grime, going easily about the empty ways -
for the city is still asleeping.

But then at once, as if called by some unheard magic horn, the floods of
people to work arise, and rubbing eyes still tender from their dreams open
shops and stalls and begin the rising of the day.  And soon there is crush
and tumult, with streams of stories walking each way this, and thus to what
they must do that day.  Whether work or wandering, whether filled with ease
or locked by roll that they feign to play.

And the sun by mid morning climbs finally above the streets ozone haze, and
gains a yellow hue again and flashes like the gold that crows love so much.
Amidst this all flies a sparrow, seeing the pretty threads and sledner
springs with which to make a nest, and with a nest to make a home.

Over street beggars and gaudy hotels she flies, picking here and there
from torn scraps near the shops.  Hither thither along old canals and into
streets still lined with brick and shaded by sycamore.

And the day wears on, with each trip adding to the roost, and slowly taking
shape her domicile.

And night falls, and yet she does not rest, the neon glare and street
lights in the great open square are near to day as night might bring.  But
at last the neon eyes are shut, and street lights put out, as people, like
sheep are herded home.  And darkness, true darkness unpockmarked by home
lit lights descends to let in once again the gaze of gleaming stars.  And
it is darkness now, deeper than in any Western land.  And so her work is
done for this they day

The city, and the sparrow, deeply sleeps.

Stirling Newberry