Copper pans and kettles rattle
beneath the clamor of dancer's feet,
a measured stampede rising
from a distance we cannot quite fathom.
Step into the warm summer afternoon
and you can hear the upright piano
plunking out the same five or six notes
through the large open windows,
emphatic and out of tune, demanding
grace as if it were simply a matter
of mathematics, the seemingly endless
counting of steps and motion,
breathe and leap, and breathe again.
Look up and you can just make out
the arms of the young students,
reaching out like thin new branches,
then joining together above their heads
like a dozen orbs of sunlight
held against the dusty window glass.
We applaud from the white sidewalk below,
continuing in our separate directions;
our own steps for a moment somehow
lighter, our shoulders held back
as if by an unseen hand, blood-warm,
familiar, gentle as the breeze.
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