for Amy Roark

Amy must have a gig soon,
I think on a Sunday morning
as the second-story strains float
from her apartment into
my closed windows,

which I open in the bathroom,
preparing for my shower,
partly to let the steam escape
but mostly to hear the flutist
next door practicing.

Her fingers arpeggio those
silver keys, breathing runs
that scale the highest peaks
of classical pieces I can’t identify
and don’t want to.

I want Amy’s flute solo,
for once not part of the large
orchestra across the country
to which she travels, just
this flute, these Sunday
morning grace notes

as gray clouds wander
over our lives, heading east
as Amy will soon, hoping
there’s good weather where
she’s bound, knowing that
once she opens her case and
assembles her magical flute,

sunshine will emerge like
birdsong.