We wake one morning to a faint melody. When we open the windows, the drapes reach toward us, and music wafts in like the scent of honeysuckle. We check outside, and sound flows from within our homes with the smell of fresh coffee.
Some people swear the music is riding down on solar wind; others think it’s rising from the ground like evaporating dew. It’s in the hum of traffic, whoosh of trains, the spaces between our thoughts.
Some hear classical, others hip-hop, folk….. No one can resist its power. We chew in tempo, mouths full of song. Air guitars garnish our commutes. We dance through crosswalks, cars beeping in rhythm.
After fender benders, we exchange melodies not accusations. And when we think it can’t get better, rival politicians form barbershop quartets.
People capture the magic, their videos enthralling us all. A welder, helmet in hand, belts out Brindisi, torch crackling on the floor behind him. An arthritic old woman, violin cobwebbed, plays through the pain, fingers dancing like an elegant spider.
And speaking of spiders, even animals join in. Dogs howl in key. Birds soar like notes on sheet music. At dusk, crickets pick up the score as cicadas fall silent. Bullfrogs add a walking bass.
Ah, but too soon, the melody fades like morning mist. We fall out of sync. Our harmony crumbles into noise. Car horns vent. Politicians blare.
Yet the old woman keeps on, her melody a reminder of the music from everywhere and nowhere, drawing, drawing us in.
