Music Between Strangers

A sycamore grove, and in its limbs

the orchestra played Má vlast, so I saw

boughs bouncing and tuxedo legs

swinging sap-spotted above the splayed

blades of the ground feathered black

in moss, in the sweat of the set sun,

and the players’ faces where moths roosted,

where leaf-points drew water-stripes

on brows and eyelids, their hands

that stirred in pollen like a fog, were masked

by birds’ nests and bows and flaking vines.

That you were last to climb down,

trumpet tied to your back with blue twine,

is the only thing I believe in,

and after you landed, drifting

through a stream, in a mat of orange needles,

you whistled to what light could float

through the leaves’ screen and canopy, diffuse

like tracing tissue, a scrum of benday dots,

            and not much at that,

now that more than the concert has ended,

                            my musician.