Orrin Schwab follows a woman named Suzanne through one night and into the morning in New York. In the opening lines she seems almost weightless, as if she "swirled above Manhattan" in a dance. Then she plays clarinet and sings swing songs in a village club, and the audience is spellbound by her. After the show she keeps playing, this time for the Hudson and the passing ships, as though the music doesn't need a crowd.
Her walk home takes her through a rougher city: graffiti, expressways, housing projects, empty shops. Yet she moves "like a gazelle," graceful and unafraid. The speaker watches from a distance and never says what they feel, but the admiring tone suggests awe. The mood shifts from glowing and musical to quiet and tired as dawn arrives and the streets wake up. In the last lines Suzanne lights a cigarette, sighs, and falls asleep in the sunlight, a night person settling into the day.