At the Music Fest
by Wilda Morris

Beneath the glow of Jupiter and Saturn
the conductor raises her baton.
Flutes sing like wood thrushes,
clarinets and horns wind their way
through the melody while percussion
punctuates the air. A half-pause,
then the saxophone begins,
smooth as ice, sensuous as moist lips.
It sends a streak of lightning down my spine.
I levitate from the blanket
we tossed on the grass.
As long as the music lasts,
I fly the winged horse through
warm August sky.



 

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