We wrote a song for the silver trees. The streetlamps gathered underneath the bridge to hear us. Our band played. Others milled. The night was soft. The river was a metronome.

We wrote a song for the silver trees.

Sylvia wasn't sure she should have been there, never higher than 3rd chair in the symphony, but the viola was for her and her alone. I loved it when she tilted her neck just so. The chains glinting silver in the groaning of the streetlamps.

This was a song for her neck.

We wrote it in a hurry, gathering musicians out of bars, calling friends for a last minute favor. The cops watching us bewildered. What could they do? There was Sylvia, her viola, streetlamp glow off her bare head and her hospital gown aflutter in the breeze.

She played, her fingers danced. She laughed. We all did.

We wrote a song for the silver trees.