It seems so sometimes,
Mozart on a Monday.
Schubert in a drizzle.

Say Vivaldi’s Four Seasons,
say exactly the one you’re
sitting at the lake in

the small radio through
the half-opened window
fading, barely on

say autumn settles
for a yellow moment
in the mottled wood

and an oboe d’amore
mourns and beckons
on the other shore.