Like a shadow on the fringe of thunderclouds
the pianist’s page-turner
almost disappears

Dressed in black, hair combed severely back,
she rises, then retreats:

a ripple in the atmosphere
holds her jacket tidily back
as she fixes her solemn eyes on the notes
not wanting anything to interfere
with the perfect storm

A performer herself,
she understands what it means
to go out on a limb, way beyond safety

Her fingers separate the dangerous pages,
sometimes turning them carefully,
sometimes placing them precisely
on the floor
like bomb disposal

No applause for her sensible heels
and dependable eye,
just a nod from the whirlwind 

to tell her that yet again
she has got it