A marvelous girl with black hair
 held a silver flute
 between her long fingers.
 She was playing a song about winter.
 A bird landed on the tip
 of her flute
 as if it were a branch.
 The falling dust of snow
 must have concealed it.
 I know it was there because it sang
 as the girl manipulated
 her fingers.  She swayed
 in a light breeze,
 her slim waist wrapped
 in a flower print skirt
 of ageless cherry blossoms.
 I stood as the song ended
 applauding wildly.
 A hand touched my arm.
 Dear, we have to go.
 My wife and I walked from the Center
 arm in arm,
 wilting slightly
 as we were greeted
 by summer
 heat.