Day Music

The mountain is a redhead 
lying on his back 
nose and knees pointed 
to the sun. His hair 
tangles in the rusty city, 
while a grizzled beard 
covers his ocher knees 
and curls in sand 
between his toes. 

He’s a musician 
whose tunes change hourly. 
Soft pastorals climb his shadows, 
where aspens clutch their leaves 
like lemon whole notes. 
Then, saxophones moan 
while tinkling amber jazz 
slaloms down a ravine, 
spraying our eyes with leaves. 

He’s jamming, a one-man band 
of random color, 
whose broad, flat fingers 
play each foothill like a keyboard, 
sharping this canyon, 
mahogany on gold, 
flatting that ridge 
in a crimson chord 
that begs for the resolution 
of wind.