A small homage to the island of Madeira, and to the braguinha, the Madeiran cousin of the machete that island emigrants carried across the ocean, where it became the ukulele.

Jacaranda blossoms fall without a sound, and the ground turns violet. Somewhere a celebration is ending; its echoes drift in, and something in us would rather be alone. The braguinha moves out into that distance, a small instrument in a wide landscape, listening for whatever the place and the heart have to say.