The Timpanist

Graham Hillard

Ever watchful, the timpanist stoops,
runs his palm over calfskin smooth
as undisturbed water, troubles
its surface, judges the pitch. His hands
are reed-thin, fine-boned
as something sculpted; they tremble
as he keeps the silent count he has
taught himself to live by, has found
in the pulse of the car’s engine, the metronomic
dryer’s click, the lawnmower’s leading
note sustained twelve beats each pass.
In his grasp, the mallet waits, poised
like lightning gathering, storms willing
themselves into being. Now he watches
the flautist rise to solo, marks each phrase
that glides, winged, into the concert hall
to nest among men in ties and jackets, ladies
roasting in furs. When it comes,
his entrance is a burst of gunfire,
a single, slim measure’s roll to forte
marking the final refrain. And he is startled—
the performance finished—to find himself
among those called to their feet, singled out
by the conductor’s raised hand
as if patience itself could account
for such music. As if love.

Prompt

Hillard captures not just the actual sound of the timpani but its flavor and emotional qualities. Choose an instrument, household item, or natural phenomenon, and focus on making us hear it in every way possible.