sits with a small smile， watching

    two speckled frogs or lizards run right

    and left， apart， together

    on long legs bendable as rubber.

    He doesn't bend down， looking，

    or sway to keep up with their scuffles，

    but sits immobile， his eyes

    icon-sized but lidded， following

    those mottled creatures.  Bow-tied，

    sweater-vested， he could be a clerk

    at a counter， there to wrap

    things up for us the old-fashioned way，

    with brown paper and a string.

    He is old， no doubting it； his lean

    head states the skull's theme clearly.

    Strict time has taught him patience， practice

    this perfect stillness， amused，

    a little， like Buddha， watching two

    lithe， spotted beasts （allegro）

    in their hopscotch hurry.  Now stealthy

    （lento）， now frantic， they ramble

    and attack and he observes， as if

    to learn their motives——hunger？

    fear？ territorial contention？

    They could be hoarding， like ants，

    against the future， or this display

    might be， in fact， a mating

    dance （as we， the viewers， are hoping

    in our hearts）。  They are not tame，

    exactly， or exactly trapped——that

    man is kindly， it strikes us，

    and would release them.  He is admiring，

    it seems， the precision， worked

    out in all this time——the way they fit

    their niche.  Just the parts they need

    they have evolved： the long and recurved

    reachers， the last joints padded

    hammer heads.  He glances now and then

    at Previn， the beat-keeper.

    "They will go on forever，"

    he might be saying， "unless your stick

    can make an end of it."  There——

    the cut-off falls， the last chord

    lingers in the strings.  The old man flings

    them——winged？——up into the air，

    a referee （that bow tie）

    declaring both the winner， sending

    them heavenward， letting go.