With a cursory press of a key and arco of the strings,
They look at each other,
Determining when to start through what looks like telepathy,
But it is instead the subtle movement of arms and chest.

They begin.

With the movement of bows bouncing on metal,
And the dancing digits upon black and white,
Sound reverberates between the audience,
With eyes and ears in tandem absorbing the scene.

They continue.

As they pass over bridges,
And draw out waves with their hands,
I listen,
Swaying and breathing and performing as though I am beside them,
Despite being above them,
Yet feeling so below.

Becoming one with their instrument,
And bringing me along,
I smile,
As just like they pull beauty out of their tools with their soul,
They guide joy out of me,
For all of us.

They end.

Then again, they start.
With new sounds from a new person,
With new intent,
And new methods.

They change.

From haphazard joy and dance,
To somber death and confusion,
They become one with the music,
And follow in its suit.

They continue, anew.

As the sound changes,
So do I.
Listening with sharper ears,
Hoping to catch a different magic in my ears.

They continue, still.

As the cello draws honey,
The violin; its dew,
And the piano waterfalls arpeggios,
I am content.

They end.

Full of the food of life,
They stand,
To let us feast with them with our hungry hands,
Giving our own vibrations to fill our drooling souls.

They leave.
And so do I.
Both of us fed and quenched,
From the performance.