First I pick up the coils of metal that are
Rather intricately welded to perfection.
Even now, after years of practice,
I can’t help but wonder how. Nothing can convince
Me to call this outrageous design an instrument.
How can I use all of the breath that I inhale
Through the audience-filled room to fill the environment
With crisp, choppy bursts of metallic timbre;
Smooth, dark, flowing melodies of full, rich tone;
Or bright, syncopated rhythms of shrillness?

How does the metal-rimmed cup that I blow into allow
For the obstreperous sound to come out
As if any average adolescent could replicate it?
In actuality, the strenuous, exhausting actions of the performer produces
The first light snowfall of autumn months turning into winter,
Nothing but the softest, most delicate, yet beautiful sound called music.