As the cool breezes blow outside, a recording of a classical piano song plays from within some old countryside home. A violin accompanies the piano player, matching talent with talent. Like the breeze, there are moments where the sounds seem to move one to shivers, only to find oneself warmed once again by slower passages. A short time ago I was writing of an early spring. Now I'm back to believing the old ancestral stories of never believing winter’s cold is over until Easter, even if the mesquites already have leaves.
The sun isn't even down and already the crickets voices seem to drown out the music. Perhaps they are merely meaning to sing along, as if to create a trio. “Trio”, one of the answers to the New York Times Genius crossword puzzles today. Funny how that works, isn't it?
Weeds have already overshot the grass across the yard in height. Definitely time to mow. But, for the moment this evening, it's interesting to watch the shadows dance in the breeze as the light of a setting sun filters through the overgrown canopy bordering the west side of the yard. Flora are dancing in the breeze as well, as if they too have a part to play in the performances of the crickets, violin, and piano. The entrance fee for this show was not paid for with cash in hand but by over thirty years worth of contributive labor. The stage has been built across many years of time; billions worth.
As the song comes to an end, the light fades, the breezes slow, the grass on the ground and leaves of the trees cease their dance; the air stills. But the crickets continue to chirp, or perhaps they were applauding all along by rubbing their limbs together.
The stage belongs to them now and the moon and the stars of the night — other stars of the night. I wonder if their performance will keep me awake or leave me smiling when I wake. Only the sunrise knows.