The Cymbal Player
As bows and fingers quiver strings,
as lungs and lips whip up the air,
as notes soar on great falcon wings,
one player, seated in his chair
like a finch hid in a maple tree,
as if the creature wouldn’t dare
trill out above the symphony
(perhaps in fear of being caught
by a raptor high above the lea),
begins to rise like an afterthought
amid the pianissimos
and, like a hunter’s rifle shot
as bright as ninety-nine rainbows
of overtones, he spreads, then hits
two plates together. The ether glows
like sunlight through the woods. He sits
back down. And yet the clang still rings
and darts and dances, flutters, flits
and, for the merest moment, clings,
then fades away like all brief things.
(Originally appeared in The Chimaera.)
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