n the far side of the studio where a deep layer of pine
needles softened her steps. She walked for five minutes and stopped. In
the distance, a chainsaw snarled twice and was silent. The air was
still and resinous. Small sounds filtered through the branches above
her. A young chickadee flew toward her, pausing briefly on low
branches. Willow remained motionless. The tiny black and white bird
hopped and flew directly to her shoulder. She felt its thin claws shift
as its head turned first one way, then the other. It rested a moment as
Willow filled with a mixture of elation and deep humility. A quick
whirring of wings and the chickadee was ten yards farther on its way.

Willow remained still, her eyes misty, her mouth slightly open. She let
the special feeling spread through to her fingertips and the soles of
her feet. No words for this, she thought. As if in answer, the
chickadee called. That's it, Willow said to herself--two notes
descending, a major third. She repeated the two notes in her mind. The
call and the feeling and the quiet beating of her heart wove together
like a shawl to be saved for the future. Hers. Her.

"God," she said. She was thirsty. She continued slowly through the
woods, working her way downhill. At some point she would meet the lower
road, and she could walk back to the beginning of AhnRee's driveway.
She came to the top of a ledge which she followed until she found a
place to scramble down. At the base of the ledge, she straightened and
listened. Banjo notes were picking their way through the trees. An easy
deliberate rhythm drew her along and down the hill, farther from
AhnRee's drive. The notes grew louder. Willow could see a clearing and
part of a roof line through the trees. Someone was playing in the back
yard.

She paused. The player was practicing _Cripple Creek_, getting into it
further and further. My day for music, she thought. When it stopped,
she clapped with pleasure and emerged from the trees onto a rough lawn.
The banjo player was sitting under a birch tree on a wooden kitchen
chair. "Right on! Excuse me," she said, "I was walking and I stopped to
listen. Where am I?"

"Cripple Creek," he said and smiled. "My back yard. My mother's,
actually." He was tall and thin with shoulder length reddish hair and a
wispy mustache that was supposed to make him look older. His hands were
large. Long fingers wrapped around the neck of the banjo he was holding
upright on his lap.

"I'm Will