The Silver Trumpet

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.

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