For the second concert of the semester
I pull the red mallets out of their plastic sleeve,
hard, round balls that can strike a note

on the orchestra bells like clear,
shining silver. Which puts a little pressure
on the bells player to get it right.

With my goal of hitting two-thirds
of the notes correctly two-thirds of the time,
the red mallets feel like a bold move.

But oddly, nowadays, the pre-concert
jitters that used to consume me decades ago
have vanished like my blonde hair,

and I am oddly calm, practicing,
as I now do, several times a day
for 15 whole minutes—unlike

much-younger me who’d practice
for hours, long past the point
of accomplishment. Because,

I thought, that’s what you did
to become proficient. Now I settle
for reasonably competent because

the great joy is not just standing
at the back of the band playing
my part to perfection,

but being part of the larger ensemble,
letting the notes played by others
wash over me like, well, music,

hearing the booms and snares
of my fellow percussionists, all
almost young enough to be

my grandchildren, and catching
the director’s cue as she signals
three held notes just before

the end of the piece, when (whew!)
I nail the sixteenth-note run, grinning
all the way to the final ringing E-flat.