Rising – Hill, Carolina Parakeet
Edie Hill – “Carolina Parakeet” from Spectral Spirits
Sunrise, Thursday March 19
"Let's talk about birds..." said Edie Hill, as we got the conversation started about a world premiere for a season – our current one – in which we wanted to focus on how and why we take care of each other. Or don't. The season's main theme is Word: extinction (twilight) – an acknowledgement that our art is about words and we do our best to choose words that talk about our world and capture our emotions. (Defining and describing our world – that's the goal.)
So, yes, let's talk about birds and people. Their songs make us so happy. They plant seeds for us. They taught us to fly! In Spectral Spirits, Edie finds so much joy and exuberance in describing their motion, their colors, their uniqueness: a composer writing about animals that are close to her. She is so committed to taking care of her adopted doves, she brought them with her from Minnesota to the premiere in Philadelphia in December! She's not just an observer, she's a family member, and you can hear it when this movement "Carolina Parakeet" explodes in sounds of the moments when these birds...
swooped to the farmlands
in waves of color-yellow, green, orange-lit in fruit trees,
found the soft squish of peaches, cherries, figs. Descending
three hundred at a time, in crayon-box flocks,
Still, just beside joy there is sorrow, and the movement gradually fades to nothing in much the way the Carolina Parakeet gradually, then suddenly, disappeared.
Tomorrow is one of those big days at The Crossing. CD Release Day. Anonymous Man finally arrives.
Birds have been chirping for an hour. Sun must be up by now.
- The Whole Team @ The Crossing
Spectral Spirits
"Carolina Parakeet"
music by Edie Hill
text by Holly Hughes, from Passings
recorded in concert at The Crossing @ Christmas
December 22, 2019 at the Presbyterian Church of Chestnut Hill
audio by Paul Vazquez of Digital Mission Audio Services
video art by John J. Audubon
* * *
From Mexico to New York they flew, tail feathers streaming,
startling in the monochrome of winter's eastern shore.
When their forests were cut, they swooped to the farmlands
in waves of color-yellow, green, orange-lit in fruit trees,
found the soft squish of peaches, cherries, figs. Descending
three hundred at a time, in crayon-box flocks, they were shot
by farmers defending their crops-who could fault them?
Shot for their tail feathers, all the rage on ladies' hats,
shot because they would not desert each other, each staying
by its wounded mate until hunters picked them off,
one by each last, bright, exotic, faithful one.