Playing only the sad notes,
Before the trees he stands.
Playing in response to the ruffles of the leaves,
As the wind moves through the land.
Playing them low, loud and slow,
Matching the calmness of the grounds.
Picking up the pace he plays,
In sporadic moments of nature’s recital.
Playing to no particular arrangement,
He takes charge to where the song travels next.
Commander of his trumpet,
He commands it to join in nature’s chorus.
When he joins in with the trees,
The birds call in response and the winds pick up.
Leaving rests,
He listens to the symphony in his surrounds,
Dressing the atmosphere with his mellow sounds.
Hay's Corner 