I took some kids on a walk, looking for signs of winter. The child on the curbstone is still knotting together bits of shoelaces to thread through leather eyelets, and only now beginning to piece it all together. The words have scattered, and the street is littered with colored confetti. She turns the pieces over one at a time and leaves them. In a distant window neon echoes a thousand times in raindrops on the glass.
Piano music filters out and dissipates like smoke.
The Cymbal Player Awaiting the nod of the baton, He holds the burnished steel, And, upon the wrist's flick, Sets his mettle ringing. Meaning loosed from inert rounds Peals forth, invisible concentrics Seeking companion drums.