Silent Orchestra

The bitter cold is like a hawk, the homeless people say
it sweeps down frm an icy sky to steal their breath away
and all the daylight artists and midnight poets too
will join the silent orchestra when hawk strikes from the blue

There is a silent orchestra playing on the streets
a chorus of musicians whose hearts have lost the beat
in better times and places, their melodies would ring
but there is no more music when the hawk is on the wing

They shelter underneath a bridge, or huddle near a wall
they bless the start of springtime and curse the end of fall
the grating is their lover, a bottle their best friend
the wind a solemn overture: the hawk will strike again

There is a silent orchestra playing on the streets
a chorus of musicians whose hearts have lost the beat
in better times and places, their melodies would ring
but solo souls fall silent when the hawk is on the wing

c. 1990, B. Riley