There was the music
Or at least the musicians
Embouchures at the ready
Reeds soaked to optimum vibrato—
Across the ages.

This melody
A Venetian gondola
Gliding—effortlessly
Through the channels of our daydreams,

And that one, a hawk
Circling, circling to pounce
Upon the least suspecting of us
Carrying us ethereally.

Thrown to the winds,
The sands of time;

The elegant oboe, her perfect posture,
The pendulum of life flow, of chordata,
The inevitability of it all.

A trace of a smile glistens
Through the wrinkles of her oatmeal-complected face,
As she thought of the courtship
Of the Big Sound, the Big Bands
Their big hearts...
The Japanese bullets
And what should have been;

But big dreams don't always work out;
The music in the park continues until dark,
 

And she nods gently
To the breeze in the gazebo
To the friendly, but distant rhythms
Of the heart.

                    Lincoln Park, Rock Island, Illinois, to be exact.

                                     —Dale G. Haake
                                        August/October 2009
                                        III

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