Haunting, ghostly. Moonlight on reeds by the riverbank drifting in the midnight breeze. A memoir of flutes, a flutesong, a reflection of memories. What's on the edge, where it's sensitive, quiet, where there's time to reflect, to honour. Birdsong. The natural sounds in these pieces are from Zen gardens, meditative canvases. The flutes sing to each other, catch rhythms for a bit, synch, spread apart, echo, reflect, explore new sonic landscapes, withdraw, play, converse, dance. Sometimes they are pretty, sometimes they collide like broken glass scratching on blackboard, sometimes like distant horns of Lethe. Intermingled in the tracks, a dirge, a singing of Orphean flutes. Yet, as if in the tree of life, coming from the tree of life, we listen to the singing of these instruments, their song.