Glancing around that neverplace, the airplane cabin, indulging that edge-of-time feeling, your head resting on the cool window, you see her. She rolls a piano onto the tarmac. You wait to be bused to the takeoff starting line. She's fuzzy in the distance, a soft shape getting softer, in a blue hoodie and blue jeans, perhaps barefoot. No one stops her. You feel like someone should. A dry swift wind beats across the flats. She stops pushing, the piano in a suitable place. A man in an orange vest drags a row of stairs behind the piano. She sits on the third step, lifts the fall board. You cannot see her hands. She's playing now. A noisy collective boredom surrounds the cabin. And yet this. Just outside. From your vantage, it's not music, nor is it spectacle. It's suppressed beauty, a dimmed surprise, and your hands ache and you long for the wind, for her bright song, for a brief dance beyond this inconsiderable window.