She is a bear. Bar-ber-a. She is a dense thicket not a slight body. The texture is heavy. A pig scuffing its body on the warm earth. There is earth, there is ash, volume. I call it my crescendo wine. Even though, I know she is a bear. I like to think she starts subtle than opens up and glides into full expression. Receding with crashing waves, not a bubbling mist. There is a beginning, middle and end. A story. A tale that is no too long and not too short. Much like the essays that have become my prose. 500 words or less. 500 bursts or less. Her instrument chosen is the cello. A bear playing the cello, who would have thought it possible? And why a cello? She is not plucking the Barolo bass or the Pinot violin. A seated, elegance that can stand alone or harmonize with pasta.