Twice upon a song,
there was a child
who learned a tune
everyone knew.

 

In the classroom—

Row, row—
stay together.

Gently.
Not too much.

Everyone stayed together.

 

They lifted the recorder.
They blew.

Nothing.

They blew again—

SQUEAK.

A few kids laughed.

They looked at their hands.

They stopped.

 

They covered the holes.
Careful.
Tight.

They blew—

The sound slipped out
sideways.

 

Row, row—
stay together.

They came in late.
Then early.
Then somewhere else—
where no one was.

 

Everyone else
stayed in the same place.

They didn’t.

 

“Like this.”
Stay together.

They tried.
They held everything still.

 

The note held.
Straight.
Flat.
Perfect.

They looked around.
Everyone sounded the same.

They did too.

 

Why didn’t it feel like them?

After school—

they didn’t want to play again.

But the recorder
was still in their hands.

 

They blew—
just a little.

The sound came out—
loose.

It wobbled—
dipped—
almost fell—
and didn’t.

 

It just came out.

On the window,
a bird tilted its head.

They blew again.

The bird answered—

quick.
bright.
not the same.

 

The night of the program—

Row, row—
stay together.

Gently.
Not too much.

They lifted the recorder.

Their hands felt tight.
Their breath felt stuck.

They played—
carefully.

The note held.
Perfect.

Everyone stayed together.

They did too.

It worked.

It didn’t feel like them.

They stopped.

The song kept going
without them.

No one stopped.

 

They took a breath.

Not careful.
Not straight.

They blew—

loose—

and the sound broke open.
It spread.

One part stayed—
one part went.

They didn’t fix it.

They let it.

The sound came back.

Not the same.
Closer.

The bird answered.

Closer.

“Echo.”

The tune did not change.

It made room.

They were in it.

They were still there.

They played—
and stayed.

They played—
ever after.

 

Outside—
the bird answered.

Row…
row…