Brass Section’s Day Off

The empty bandstand yawns under a buttery sun, sheet music fluttering like lazy kites on a phantom breeze. Gold horns lounge in their cases, still humming with last night’s high notes, while spit valves dry into tiny puddles of forgotten solos. Somewhere, a mute rolls under a chair, dreaming of sass. The trumpeter’s lip balm melts unused. No fanfare, no crescendos—just the sweet, unscripted silence of valves at rest, the metallic ghosts of swing still clinging to the air like the scent of a twice-told joke. Even the metronome has nodded off.