There is a tense, familiar quiet which comes before all performances:

This sound was broken with cheerful whispers and wild tuning.

And just like that, it was beginning: We climbed from the bowels of the theatre,

And into the golden light. Which secret stairwell may I use?

They dance in a sea of faces,

Their hand lifts the sound of a trumpet, a harp, a flute -

Like a roll of tumbling thunder.

The interval is just as interesting, I suppose I’m here for different reasons than you.

I search their faces, each a landscape in itself.

The evening ends, almost as quickly as it started.

And I have one of the tunes stuck in my head, wrapped around me in layers.