Rusted Horn

He assembled in darkness the corroded horn by familiarity and sense of touch. Then cast as thunder into the empty night long tones void of musical melody. Sustained tones, fierce and woeful in succession paraded the street. Each note precisely chosen, unfurled and carried aloft in chilly air. The flickering street lamp understood as long shadows on a cobbled walk slow danced in the warming glow. But the music was not for them tonight. The musician’s voice transformed and angry staccato flares broke. Chop, chop and chop on the mighty tree! He watched it fall dead against unfeeling brick. Snapping of limbs and morality but the tree was just a thug anyway. Indignant “Quiet downs!” rained from high-rise windows mingling in the blood of the fallen; and tears…so few tears. Still, the music wasn’t for them tonight. Yet they could not escape the song, that guileless voice in the darkness, which once again transformed. Weeping heaves bellowed through aged-brass amplifying every tremble of the lip. Pitiful notes, harsh on either end and broken by uneven vibrato, yet piercing in their rawness, turned away the wrathful storm. Tremulous begging it seemed, accompanied a hopeful plea for dawn, which lulled to sleep the very stars above. The moon halted to listen as well, before tucking itself in, cathartic, as the pitiful busker concluded his song of remorse for un-lived dreams and unspoken things The music wasn't for them tonight. 10/18/15