Jerry E. Smith
Beautiful bedlam of 150 instruments being tuned.
Maestro taps his baton, sudden silence.
Raised in classic gesture . . .
Welling of violins . . .
Trill of flute!
Can you hear a bird
Chattering in chill morning air?
Do you see Black Rock Mesa
Stark and majestic at dawn?
Cue the oboes!
Sing the clarinets!
Can you smell the blossoms opening:
Lavender, oleander and sage?
Do you sense a pressure from the lowering sky
Giving promise of rain?
Clash the cymbals!
Let the timpani tremble the earth!
Lightening strikes savanna.
Ozone tangs the nose.
Rain pelts the skin.
Listener shivers with impending delight.
Horns rise in tempest,
Strings wail the wind . . .
Rising wind rushes writhing cloud forms across the plains,
Across the mind,
Imaginary shafts of sunlight and cloud shadows dance
Behind the eyes.
Orchestra in full voice
Rises in complex crescendos . . .
Images of beauty and grandeur
Pass too swift for recognition,
Leaving on a taste of
The wonderful . . .
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