Standing here savoring a sip of Chianti,
I gaze at the river reflecting the night sky.
The reeds hug the shoreline and
Sway in the shadows.
I smell the brine drifting
On currents of spring air.
In front of the stone wall, the hens are asleep in their
Henhouse beneath the faint limbs of a cherry tree.
Save barks in the distance.
I set down my glass
On the bench by the porch stair
And watch as a heron glides into the marshes,
Returned to the nest she built there in the rushes.
Then suddenly over the trees on the far bank,
A sharp edge of moon flares,
Igniting the river.
The heron cries out her song,
Wings spread and backlit.
The cherry limbs spring to life,
Fingers of black on white. . .
Now I know how such a scene could have moved him.
I reach for my pen, and it’s then that I see him
Before me, a ghost sitting there in the moonlight,
Bent fingers on ivory, engrossed in composing.
He dips in a quill and then
Scratches away, melding
Measures with meters
And toying with phrase.
He’s so lost in his harmony,
Note after note
Through the night.
[Previous published in Vain Magazine]