A soft inhale of breath,
signal of the start of a motion.
The emerging of the familiar colors as they float alongside,
in fractions of sound.
They reach as far as they can before they run out of bread crumbs.
Fingers tap rapidly across the black pigmented wood.
The smell of rosin and hours reading black dots of ink with lines.
The pale hair sliding up and down the threads of silver.
Sounds protrude from this wooden instrument,
sounds of practice and evaluation,
sounds of peace.
They might not see the colors that accompany each drag of the bow.
The cobalt blue that seems to blanket the player during lullabies.
The copper sparks that seem to bounce from the fast moving bow.
The golden sun that seems to shine down during the victorious verse.
The deep rouge hue that surrounds the amazed eyes of the audience during the climax.
Even after the last note have been dim the colors still linger.
The last exhale is when they stop,
slowly sinking back into the violin.
Leaving the audience in awe along with,
the player that bows and walks off stage.