Silent Orchestra
Betsy A. Riley
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| PHOTO: Wonderlane |
Originally Published in the July 2012 issue of Empirical
The bitter cold is like a hawk, the homeless people say
It sweeps down from an icy sky to steal their breath away
And all the daylight artists and midnight poets too
will join the silent orchestra when hawk strikes from the blue
There is a silent orchestra playing on the streets,
a chorus of musicians whose hearts have lost the beat
In better times and places, their melodies would ring,
but there is no more music when the hawk is on the wing
They shelter underneath a bridge, or huddle near a wall
They bless the start of springtime and curse the end of fall
The grating is their lover, a bottle their best friend,
the wind a solemn overture: the hawk will strike again
There is a silent orchestra playing on the streets,
a chorus of musicians whose hearts have lost the beat
In better times and places, their melodies would ring,
but solo souls fall silent when the hawk is on the wing
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