His rough fingers were slow with the knife
careful
not clumsy
it flashed when he turned it into the sun
it was well polished
respected, if not loved

The reed quickly became a whistle in his hands
The waiting boy
mustering patience like rowdy soldiers
grew eager
eyes wide, hands anxious at his sides

The soldier finished
After paring away a stray splinter
looked up and smiled
'It is ready'
The child grinned and jumped once
feet thudding on the porch's wooden slats

'May I have it?' he asked
already knowing the answer
'It is yours' the soldier said, and gave the boy the flute
He took it and ran to show his mother
piping badly all the way

Behind the boy the soldier sat and dreamed
caught fast in the gentle grip of a memory
of Peter's small hands and his quick red knife
of that first flute's high sweet melody
and his shy sweet smile
on that last orange afternoon

AcB 07.23.01