Spring Prelude by Dena Wilkinson

The Conductor lifts His hands
And lightning blazes in the darkness.
Anticipation shivers with electricity—
The opera is ready to begin.
A shout of thunder fills the silence of the night;
The voice of the Performer is unmistakable.
His power resonates,
Permeating an invisible moon
While creating a tympanic disturbance.
Cacophonous chords crescendo
Reaching climactic proportions.
Spellbound, immense trees gaze upward
Their limbs outstretched in acclamation.

And then…silence.

But in the distance
Woodwinds whisper in soft harmony,
"Winter is dead, winter is dead."
As their symphony fades into dark obscurity,
Spring humbly bows to a thunderous ovation.