Cool Jazz

The ground is dry.  At first, no sounds. 
From somewhere under a wintry sky, 
a one-string bass begins its song.

The voice of a clarinet starts its climb.
It is like the voice of a restless cat.
Once more there is silence in the street.

If desire exists, it’s for winter sleep. 
Then you hear a sax. There is no escape.
Wind picks up the rhythm. Leaves scratch and scrape

But do not worry. It is not your dance.
You can, of course, if that’s your wish.
It may just keep you from freezing.