sits with a small smile， watching
two speckled frogs or lizards1 run right
and left， apart， together
on long legs bendable as rubber.
He doesn't bend down， looking，
or sway to keep up with their scuffles，
but sits immobile， his eyes
icon-sized but lidded， following
those mottled creatures. Bow-tied，
sweater-vested， he could be a clerk
at a counter， there to wrap
things up for us the old-fashioned way，
with brown paper and a string.
He is old， no doubting it； his lean
head states the skull's theme clearly.
Strict time has taught him patience， practice
this perfect stillness， amused，
a little， like Buddha2， watching two
lithe3， spotted4 beasts （allegro5）
in their hopscotch6 hurry. Now stealthy
（lento）， now frantic7， they ramble8
and attack and he observes， as if
to learn their motiveshunger？
fear？ territorial9 contention10？
They could be hoarding11， like ants，
against the future， or this display
might be， in fact， a mating
dance （as we， the viewers， are hoping
in our hearts）。 They are not tame，
exactly， or exactly trappedthat
man is kindly12， it strikes us，
and would release them. He is admiring，
it seems， the precision， worked
out in all this timethe way they fit
their niche13. Just the parts they need
they have evolved： the long and recurved
reachers， the last joints14 padded
hammer heads. He glances now and then
at Previn， the beat-keeper.
They will go on forever，
he might be saying， unless your stick
can make an end of it. There
the cut-off falls， the last chord
lingers in the strings15. The old man flings
themwinged？up into the air，
a referee16 （that bow tie）
declaring both the winner， sending
them heavenward， letting go.
