Lips pursed
Fingertips flittering on keys
Eyes downcast
Yet back straight

She looks up
just in time to take a deep breath
and see the thin baton rise.

Music is open before her
recorded on paper
as if that captured its' essence.

As each player breathes in unison
the air buzzes,
and the music transforms
from black ink
to compressed sound waves
coursing through the air.

Her notes dance far above the staff;
fingers work in intricate patterns
keeping tempo with those around her.

A hand comes up next to the baton.
With shaky legs,
she rises.

The baton takes smaller movements, 
to signal the rest of the orchestra to pianissimo.

A sea of black before her,
music no longer captured on paper,
but flowing freely from her
to the audience.

Shrill notes staccato their way into the world,
body movements correspond to the music
cascading through her body.

As she breathes the room breathes with her.
And as the hand comes down next to the baton,
she takes her seat again.

The final notes on paper,
eking out the last bits of energy
from brass, woodwinds, and strings.

With the last note played,
an anthropomorphic sound erupts.
Applause, hoots, hollers, and screams.

Hands folded in lap,
our flautist 
bashfully smiles.