Hear

Quietly, in shades of grey, the park lives deserted. I intrude, slipping into its pace, its time: in the steady calm of the evening-scape, the tunes rehearsed fade into the melody of my violin case bumping on my back. Ahead along the path, grey flows strangely into living green, as warm yellow slips down from an old-fashioned lantern. My footsteps wade lightly through its puddle. On this night I could pluck an arm from the lantern and cast it into the soft grassy earth: on this night it would spring and bud and grow - so the still air whispers. The warm night air is sweet; sweet as leafy lungs breathe. On this night, if you listen, listen below the shallow, distant hum of city, you may almost catch a murmur of a Lion, singing low a deep sustaining song, holding together the grassy atoms, the towering trees, the human city lights, the haze above; giving this sweet air, breathing a song to which the silver sliver above smiles a faint reply in keeping with her orbit.