Piccolo,
instrument of delicate melody
like warbling sparrow
in a birch tree on an early
morn,
a string of keys
upon a canvas black
of tempered wood,
thine eye
an abyss
waiting for the breath of life.
Soaring high notes
penetrate
the depths of sound,
cheerful
twitters
coaxing out each
dawn.
Chords of birdsong
clash,
imprecise intonation
at its peak,
rhythmic chirrups
shaping pitch
forever.
Piccolo,
soprano of the woodwinds,
fingers nimble
on a flute so
small,
piercing
through orchestral harmony
with notes that linger
like
a soft breeze
on a summer day.