Mystery Piano in the Woods

A light snow was fallingbut the piano was still in perfect tune:an upright in a grove of maple and beech,its obedient wooden bench trailing,intact, without scars, as if the pianohad merely stepped out of its parlorto sniff the air, to look at the cloud cover,the way we might step off our porcheswithout a coat, just for a minute.No sheet music, no rap sheet;no one reported it missing.One police officer remembered enoughfrom childhood lessons to trya harmonic minor scaleand reported its action was excellent.For two weeks straight, the officercouldn’t shake the image;he dreamed of it every single night:a dissident piano waltzing in the woodsto Chopin’s Revolutionary Etudeunder a fresh insurrection of snow.