The Evening Concert

The air is rain, or snow, or both,
moldy clouds brush the horizon
— the air touches a nerve.
On the early light we gather
to stand by the light of the sun
then before the moon we turn,
quiet clinking matching shivers,
hail and behold.
There is no bridge but time
and us, both there and there,
the same breath that speaks
sings under the same Ghibli sky,
hail and behold.
A hundred others rise up and join
note and note, melody formed
that defies thought and thinking;
even feeling is insufficient
for none can feel half as many
notes as any moment bears,
hail and behold.
I shall hear having ears,
beauty that none shall read
and even all memories gathered
will be hardly more than a mocking
refraction of what fills and cries
hail and behold.

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