In a silky red dress and floral flats, Angela Maria McCourt watched the trees of the mountains surrounding her, stretching on in handsome glory as far as the eye could see, gently swaying, repositioning the air around her. Her small hands held an aged violin that she raised to her chin, her mind without the guidance of any sort of memorized, officially-composed song, which is how Angela preferred it; hours of completely abstract musical compilation, inspired by the grass and the snow and the sun and the bark of the trees and their leaves and the clouds and the air and the birds and the bees of her mountains.