White leaves rustle
in autumn
To a swinging beat,
marked with ink –

Staff lines,
and sharps
that fall
flat.

Synchronised
To the wave
of a maestro’s
hands.

Camaraderie.
But no words are needed.

A fervent look
From the drummer
Gives away the tempo,
Speed up!

A rehearsed nod
starts an improvised solo
in another mode.
Mixolydian.

We exist on the same
wavelength;
you and I.