Читать книгу The Geography of Jazz - Lenard D. Moore - Страница 10

On Fayetteville Street Mall

a lean man bobs his head.

His sax shines—polished

copper in a sunbeam,

rhythm, a splendid rising

echoing against concrete.

The trumpeter inches

across the homemade platform;

his angled jaw swerves

and slacks.

His notes—perfect

geometry for dancing.

People snap their fingers;

they are bassline

vibrating autumn.

Pigeons peck peanuts,

drum beaks

on the sidewalk.

The musicians blast into sky,

ripple red leaves loose

from a stand of trees,

glow in the sunset,

play vamps

as earthlings will do.