Society’s symphony.
It alights lightly upon the listener’s ear.
It is sunrise caressing a songbird’s feathers,
the yawn that precedes the morning stretch,
icy dew on sharp grass and percolating coffee’s perfume.
It crescendos.
The sound of dogs’ nails on cement, barking.
Rustling leaves canopying suburban streets.
Morning traffic to work.
Busses bustling with heavy-lidded children.
Swiftly the pace climaxes—
Lunch time. Grease spitting on a hot stove,
voices chattering to one another.
Coins clinking—experimental percussion—on tiled floor.
Feet running, sinking in sand,
callouses ripping anew on the palms of a skilled monkey-barist.
Sun’s steady gleam reflecting loudly upon all.
The decrescendo commences after.
Digestion rumbles warmly in stomachs.
Some nap
Some relax
Some force lazy minds back to work.
Society slows.
Rush hour—a slight jump in tempo accompanied by
children returning from school,
the dog’s wagging tail,
dinner demanding acknowledgement with its loud preparation.
And jaws chomping, applauding at its stunning performance.
Sunset lulls the melody, the warm haze like
honey on bread.
Showers shush the listener, massaging its warmth into
tense muscles.
Perhaps desert is had, the sweet taste lingering pleasantly
upon the palate.
Perhaps a movie is watched, reclined, its sound erasing
the day’s worries from the mind.
And the moon rises silently.
The gentle light smooths people’s brows,
watches over children tucked into bed,
limbs imbued with delicate heat.
Lighting up the steam of a late cup of tea.
Rounding out mountain ridges and jagged bark.
And the symphony ends as if it never began.
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