the Whistler

*

I pass a bunch of musicians in the street.

It's about 12.30, rehearsal just over, they're

standing around outside the side door of the church.

A good rehearsal; and it's April. They're laughing,

horsing around, talking about shoes, or taxes, where

to go for lunch, anything

except what their heads are full of.

It's a kind of helplessness, you can see

they're still breathing almost in unison, like people

the searchlight has passed over

and spared, their attention

lifts, swerves, settles; even

the gravel dust stuttering at their feet is coherent.

  Jan Zwicky, Musicians