He, The Lonesome Violinist

Playing, practicing by his lonesome,

The other seats vacant, the other players absent,

The spectators not paying heed,

Diligently rehearsing,

For his own benefit, for theirs,

None other would appreciate it, care, ever notice,

The notes ringing slyly, echoing stealthily so as to not arouse their presence,

The others slowly emerge, joining him in his pursuit,

Not knowing how long he has been there,

Now it is their turn to practice too,

The colony mutters distinctly, overlapping,

How can they hear their own strings from amongst the others?

Is it utter focus, determination?

Perhaps it is faith in knowing each has had their turn as the Lonesome Violinist.