The Concert Pianist
Through her half-open window, she lets out
a series of sweet notes, the melodious raindrops,
repeats and repeats till a lively
mountain stream comes to life
in the opening of the concerto
she has chosen to practice this afternoon.
And the fast notes flow down to the sidewalk
like a small stream emptying into a pond.
And although the rhythm and cadence appear
natural, they follow a pre-composed order
and flow downwards, like all her years
wholly dedicated to daily practice
that have come and to come.
And the flows of orderly movements
and the confident strikes
her agile fingers are raining on the keyboard
give her the illusion of control, yet that
which she so loves,
unbeknown to her, takes over control of her life.
His eyes narrow, his jaws clench,
and his muscular arms and shoulders twist
against the powerful hips
in the coiled position he has practiced
thousands of times before
in the shepherds’ field.
And the round stone in his sling awaits
to deliver the killing blow.
And all coiled and ready,
he dwells his gaze
on the advancing target as if
he willed the target to loom larger
before he uncoils, twirls, and fires
—and thus propels his own ascension
from the field of shepherds
towards the realm of stars.