Perfect Precision

The perfect precision of three trumpet players
Dipping quickly in velvet sound
Sketching across the mellow moon
The etherized tracing of minds.

A white tailed rabbit
Hops across the snow
Leaving its tiny indentations
For a while--
The falling snow lines each small track
With silent stars
And hides the path it took.

The blast of triple tonguing
Calls the glare of noon time sun
To pierce its pointed beams
Into the veins of the pulpy plants
And ruthlessly to drain
The moisture from the green.

On a long sustained low note
A little girl with smooth hands
Reaches up to curl her fingers round the arm
Of a faltering old man
Who gives the love she wants.

The trumpeters play on with sharp edged melody;
A thousand notes are blown upon the wind,
The music stops
And each one lays his trumpet down.
Through the haze of transposition
Each becomes again any one along the street.