Musicians lift horns, reeds, and bows;
I stand behind the curving rows;
We’re waiting here in eager pose to put a concert on.
My drumsticks hover like a pair
Of keen antennae in the air;
The audience goes still at their compelling magic charm.
This silent moment, charged with power,
Will open like a time-lapse flower
At that first downward move of our conductor’s raised baton.
I’ve practiced cadence, lilt, and din,
And now I’m hoping once again
The bird of music will fly in and land here on my arm.