The wind that whisks the people through the city
Fills their heads with thoughts as well,
The tenuous and discontinuous
Multi-tasked facts, spontaneous conjecture,
Memories conveniently retrieved
And inconclusively released ...
The wind must cultivate these reveries
In the moment before they flee
As if a needle dropped in the spin
Would reveal a symphony,
But there’s only the bluster of the wind
And the face of Dudamel like an archon.
