The final notes of a John Coltrane solo hop and swirl around the room
before spilling into the darkened streets, restless and adolescent,
like the souls of those who have escaped into the protected night,
casting weary glances over dark and rounded shoulders.
I begin to think of the very first person to express himself
by forcing his breath through the hollowed branch of a tree,
drawing the attention of the others gathering around the fire,
amazed to hear in his sounds the essence of the passing day.
Then again, the first jazz solo might have come from a young woman,
sitting alone beside still water, slender silhouette silvered by the moon,
enticingly obscured by the low swinging limbs of the aspens, firs and pines ,
breathing haunted melodies of such longing as to wrench your very soul.
Author notes
Written October 7th, 2004
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oh yea..... :-)
I will just soak this in.
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