I pass a bunch of musicians in the street.
It’s about 12.30, rehearsal just over, they’re
standing around outside the side door of the church.
A good rehearsal; and it’s April. They’re laughing,
horsing around, talking about shoes, or taxes, where
to go for lunch, anything
except what their heads are full of.
It’s a kind of helplessness, you can see
they’re still breathing almost in unison, like people
the searchlight has passed over
and spared, their attention
lifts, swerves, settles; even
the gravel dust stuttering at their feet is coherent.
Jan Zwicky, Musicians