Music ceases.
Only a string or skin trembles.
Hands tingle, sweat prickles
as minds loosen tendrils sewn
through the symbiosis of playing.
Slow seconds pass.
Breath stuffs itself back
into tight spaces of lungs.
Silence is deep.
A temporary empty world
where we are alone,
pinned under light.
Then it begins.
Slow, like the beginning of rain,
that increases and swells,
subtle as flowing water.
Hands collide. Throats roar.
Whistles slice warm air.
People stand arms high,
as if their appreciation might rise,
swell to a rolling wave
that heaves toward and over us.
We are lifted to a plateau
of euphoria, joy, satisfaction.
We take our bow, return.
Leave, wired and content.

© 2017, Miki Byrne

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