He flits a wrist,
elongating a hand,
that extends to collect seven trumpets.
They tremble with force as he extracts soul
from each trumpeter in unison,
slowly drawing their horns out completely
before flicking his fingers to close the section.
As the syrupy residue of sound
glistens off their brass cups,
he gathers up momentum,
shifting it towards clarinets
that he will dance down to the heavy drums
he’d just invited in with a striking motion.
He allows the dramatic echo of reverb to press through the audience
they stir as the bass settle’s.
A clear display of his master control.
For the seconds that preface a whipping frenzy of motion and noise,
he’d stilled the stars.
For the seconds that proceeded,
they were one body.
His livened eyes flare,
dead set on the center of the orchestra,
He diddles air gently to signal
No one in attendance
anticipates this songs end.
To be completely honest,
even the idea of a finale
is coupled with a small amount of fear.
In this place where
light is reserved for illuminating staging behind the instruments,
in the middle of nowhere,
staring away from our
believing for a short time,
that one day
could be us.