The trumpet sits
gleaming, silent and regal,
waiting for the show
to start,
waiting for the band
to play.
Waiting for the player
to lend some soul
to the brash, brassy voice.
Brassy in sound only,
looking all cool,
refined,
like a silver satin gown.
The player, fingers
flying
down the spine of valves.
He coaxes a raucous,
lively tune from the horn:
Brays, and long, mournful
howls; short
stac-cat-o pops.
When the night winds
down, the tune takes on
a mellower edge. Gliding smooth,
slow, cloud shadows on
a summer field.
Accompaniment to
the singer’s voice,
wending its way,
a bee droning among
sweet new flowers.
Then the night is
over and the silver trumpet,
nearly aglow
from the heat of the music,
rests once
again in perfect gleaming silence.