Night Music

Warming up...please make comments.

There’s a brisk wind in the air, and the trees shimmy and throw confetti leaves. I can smell the jubilation of the city, a nocturnal animal recently roused when the night came down and cloaked the sky in black and glittering blue. Moonbeams echo off the layer of clouds, mixing with the gold of the streetlights shining up.

The people are at ease now that they’ve hung their business suits up, and the hour is their own. I walk amidst traffic lights and headlights and neon “open” signs flashing in the windows along the streets. They’ve got so many colors now; it’s a man-made galaxy. I wrap my fingers around every detail of this night, turn it upside-down and backwards and record it. The people are fewer and quieter now and the conversations more intimate, muted by the cover of dark. The music of the wind in the trees and passing cars rises up through the cracks. I stand for a moment, humming with it until I’m sure I’ll remember the tune. I can’t remember what I had for dinner, but I remember the music.

I remember the ice cream too, sitting outside the shop, perched on the handicap ramp rails with a waffle cone and the most colorful flavor I could pick out. It’s saccharine and too rich and melts too fast in the warmth, but it’s exactly what I want.

I find my way to the mall and wander through the shops. The Christmas decorations are still up and colored lights are strung on every palm tree and railing, gaudy red bow hanging from the beams, and I smile at it. My wandering takes me to the roof of the parking garage where I peer over the railings at the cars below, counting how many pass for every green light. A plane hums overhead.

When I return home, I pack my bags, but my gaze finds the window. Up here in my room, the night music is softer, made of whispering trees and clinking dishes and water running in the kitchen. Down the mountain, I can see the lights of small cars whizzing by on the highway and the turn of the faraway traffic lights.

I finish my packing and find my dog. He turns over and shows his belly and looks up quizzically at me. He doesn’t know. I run my hands over his fur, memorizing its texture.

The next morning, I bring my bags, and we drive off. We follow the same highway I could see from my window. A plane flies overhead. I think back to the night and try to find the music, and when I can, I know I will be safe.

Two thousand miles and six months away, I can still remember the tune.