"Picture a womanplaying a piano board at the kitchen table on a late December morning. Her hands, warmed by knuckle gloves, move across the wooden keys as she leans into the music. Pedalling a foot against the floor, her strong, supple fingers pound the opening chords of a Rachmaninov concerto. The woman imagines heavy velvet curtains drawing apart and lively notes rush on stage, leaping and skipping in a short, spirited dance that ends in a flutter of sound. The dancers depart and swaying from side to side, the woman plays slower notes and hums along, her voice mellifluous and soothing as she imagines herself beside a stream sliding through waving grass. Outside the window, the winter landscape is frozen and drab, but inside the farmhouse it is summer and music sparkles on sunlit water as the notes flow from the woman's fingertips, moving outward in ever expanding circles. Except for the fire crackling inside the wood stove and the woman's hum, no sound can be heard in the kitchen, for the painted keys of the piano board are as mute as the table beneath.
--from An Audience of Chairs