Like gold, it’s first notes emanating out of polished brass. Brass, that gleams and feels cold and smooth and haunted. Jazz! like an anxious sort of happiness, like something brief and sweet, there in one moment and gone in the next.

When the trumpets go silent, something still sits deep with you and grabs hold of you and won’t let go. Maybe it’s just in the background of the room, or your thoughts, but the sound seeps into you and blooms inside you and grows into something blue, brown, red. Something curved and  circular, lines bouncing off one another and intersecting and going their separate ways once again. Jazz, pounding with the urgency of a heartbeat, but not matching its steady beating. For some are early and bright, others take their gentle time and arrive in auric shades and dark shadows. A mournful note strays.

There’s a man on the sidewalk, wearing a gray cap. He listens, he pauses. For a moment his dark eyes are fixed on this sight, this sound. For one moment, his back straightens, his eyes closed. He drops a dollar into the upside down top hat. Then he nods his head wisely, sighs, and moves on.