Concert call

There is always one
burnishing with rosin
or turning a peg
in the soundboard,
while another clicks
the row of red, yellow,
and green on a Rubik’s
cube to warm up the hours,
repeating a scale or that
same passage from one
of Vivaldi’s Seasons—
cuckoo clearing its throat,
spangles of ice thawing
from the roof, wheels
of a carriage turning
heroically in the mud,
and the rider pressing
his mount onward to that
breathless destination.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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