Rage

She straightens her score
on the stand and hesitates to start.
The sprinkling drops pattered
on the window pane. The music
of her flute is a storm. The wind
is her breath preparing
to shatter a tree trunk to bits.
Eight measures of rest—the eye
of the storm. We all wait, prepared,
trembling as the music of the end
initiates again.

It’s calming. It’s serene. But
in the same moment,
we are frightened.

The closer you get, the quicker
the frozen chills from the hail
sneak up your spine.

A perfect symphony. The triumph
of whale-like thunder
brings the world into crooked composure.

She places her flute gently
on the table. Is she done?
Is she satisfied?

She lets out a deep sigh
and her fingers tremble
as she begins to rage again.