Limber fingers tune instruments
in the sun's first rays
as people walk slowly about
with sleep still in their eyes.
Carefully, three musicians
place their small wooden chairs,
no taller than stepping stools,
around the stone boar,
off to one side of the square,
trying to blend in with the crowd.
This is where they sit everyday.
With delicate hands,
she gathers her white frauen rock (skirt),
as she sits on her small wooden seat,
back straight, chin high.
Adjusting the gray felt hat
resting on her fine golden hair,
she picks up her cello with nimble fingers,
poised to play.
Casually, he sits on his chair,
picking up his accordion.
The keys are no longer white,
worn spots the size of finger tips,
frame slightly bent,
he handles it like a baby.
Adjusting the turkish weste,
he waits, ready to play.
Ignoring his holz sitz,
he stands rigidly,
pulling his hat down low,
covering his eyes.
Glancing about, he cautiously
grabs the double bass
next to him, resting against the boar.
Raising his bow, he prepares to play.
Harmonious strains of music
emanate from the instruments.
Passersby stop occasionally to listen,
appreciating the diversion.
Ignoring the crowd,
they play for hours,
hoping to receive stray deutschemarks.
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