Tuba Mirum

Tuba Mirum

On a Monday like that,

you half-expect the moon

to rise above the name,

to take its place in the sky

not blue but a gray silt

burying the Cumberland Plateau.

A bird's orange throat

could not resurrect sunlight,

not even a shallow flame

in such poor weather.

But the green flooded with music

so flawless in the wind

it made birdsong unbearable -

a boy, a virtuoso,

practiced his tuba,

Mozart, the lamentation

echoing down the arcade

in search of someone,

someone else.