Places and Times

Flute Man

He was playing his flute
on a bench in the Zocolo.
He was not of us, an intruder.
He was a stranger.
I knew it at once.
I am of the village.
I know everyone by sight.

We call our town square the Zocolo,
though it has no plinth,
only weeping willows,
and patches of lawn around two flower beds.
The willow buds were breaking,
promising early leaves.
Dust crusted the flower beds.
The grass was still winter amber.

The melody conjured the sun
smiling through the rain.
It tugged at corners of me
I had not visited in a long while.

Faded denim covered his lean strength.
Storm cloud grays speckled
his obsidian hair.
Living had carved characters
in his face and around his eyes.
His brown eyes looked
beyond the Zocolo.

I stopped to listen
until he closed his song
with a quiet phrase.
He looked at me and nodded,
shook the spit from his flute,
put it in his pack and walked away.
I stayed, and listened to the wind
whisper to the willows
until my corners
settled into place again.

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Updated last on:  2001/05/26