The Traveler Becomes Small

For the moment you realize the trunk above you has hidden the whole sky. Your own height stops meaning anything; there is nothing near your size to compare it with. Celtic harp harmonics ring small and clear while an alto recorder moves step by step, leaving room between phrases. Open fifths in E minor sound like a voice that never reaches the canopy. The second cycle is thinner than the first, and a quiet coda closes it. Not fear — only the feeling of growing smaller.