Some songs don’t begin with words. They begin with a sound heard in a half-sleep, half-hidden among the rustling of pine needles and the soft breathing of the forest.
I was sitting in the doorway of our house after midnight, the air still cool enough to carry the scent of moss and ancient stone, when the nightingale began to sing. It wasn’t a song. It was a question, addressed to no one in particular, and that’s precisely what made it so urgent.
As the sun rose, the first line of a song was already there. Not yet the melody. Just the form of a sentence, thin and persistent, like a root pushing its way through gravel.
Many of these songs begin this way. Not intentionally, but simply by listening.