The shuffling of cloud. Some overlap, some depart.
I wonder through them, searching for a bird, a bell, a tone.
Here, the waters part and all that exists is a dusty road.
A passing car, a boy with a hat in his hands.
Musicians like this give the whole universe in a momentary note, for folk like myself, happy to drift, they guide me down and glue leather to my toes and feet, they come to me with the sky in their hands and yet whisper “It is really the earth”.
I am here.
I have stood on the sidewalk watching from a window into the instrument which is Hue Blaines for a few years now. Sometimes the room was red, sometimes a silvery blue. He throws a thousand colors into our minds and walks away, coat thrown over his shoulder, a kind of shuffling, and an attitude of “another day is done”. He fills his pocket with a few small coins and continues. We are left to wonder.. where have we been?
We have been to the quiet private rooms of masters, we have sat and listened to the drunken mutterings of fourth avenue. We have seen the scroll and they indeed, were written by a child.
Humility. Excellence. Wonder.
What contains a single tone? Musicians like this come rarely and imprint more than they know. We laugh, we weep. We fly. We are left little less than wide eyed.
The windows shut,
The clouds depart,
In our hands, the flower of our mind.