We have been listening to Mingus, Monk and Milt Jackson through the summer. August likes to recite her own spontaneous poetry over the music. I linger in the moment. Later, I wonder if jazz will be forever connected with the months just before kindergarten. Our brand new neighbor plays the saxophone in the evenings. The sound gently passes through the walls. It sounds very good and a bit serendipitous.
Heard mariachis at the library, the lonely trumpet echoing down the hallway before they started put me somewhere I can't quite describe. Perhaps its in the future. The museum we love feels like home, the library like church and the church like a museum. Deep in thought and feeling, I am using all my senses, and it's all love.