Out of the summer air mellow notes
nudge loose the memory—a Bolivian flute
heard first on the trail ahead,
then in the distance and around a bend,
next afloat from a peak over our heads
as we hiked in the hills outside La Paz .
I look around.
A solitary figure sits in a chair in a shady spot
on the bluff, a clarinet at his lips. If he shifts
his eyes from the music stand
he can gaze upon glittering Lake Michigan .
He fits into the Milwaukee landscape
like that Incan flutist was part of the Andes .
© by Phyllis Wax.
Used with the author’s permission.