It’s 3am on
Columbus avenue in San Francisco city…it’s too hot to sleep and it’s Fleet
Weekend so the streets are teaming with life…foreign life, shipped in from all
around for a celebration of the great and the good, and of death and guns…beneath
my window, an old black man stands strong like the great redwoods of the
surrounding ranges...strong against the daily swirling of the tide of people
that surge around him on their daily runs…the lines on his face and the husk in
his voice tell of his beatings over the years…a thousands bruises from this and
that and God only knows what, but he’s not yet broken…not yet bent…not yet
bitter…instead he sits, softly serenading the entire street with his soul on
show for all to see as he pours out his tales through the horn of his saxophone
which he muses over...patiently musing the sorrow of a thousand hearts and a
million beauties yet to walk in and out of his life's eye line...
Another Frisco old
hat sits opposite…rapping and bapping and bipping his fingers on his bongo...as
though he were questioning and probing his brother of the brass...two strangers
come together in this city of arts and understanding to find their own
understanding of the arts and this city...
No words pass…no
thought left unsaid…music is the language of the world and this city is their
stage…
In music there is
peace…
