sparrows perched on the evening wire
long before electric lines were strung on the maestro's clef,
freeform birds ready to sprout half note wings
to fly into notation’s migrant melodies
and, like the Aeolian breeze, shake the
lilting limbs of trees
or be conducted into a tessellation of eternities.
The concertos were jive and jazz long before rambling brass
could make strings and woodwinds pregnant with shouts and screams.
Rivers and streams braided clear
as they made long lavish love while taking the scenic route
to crescendo’d seas. Such is Mozart’s legacy,
these blackbird notes, a smooth hand across a bare shoulder
or the rhythmic, rhymed conception of
fertile egg and seed.
The glory of these flights, of course, is still heard and seen,
but I’m preaching to the choir perhaps, for I think that souls
attuned to the music of the spheres know exactly what I mean.
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