It started as a walk in the park
next to the river’s
wooded alluvial plain.
A remote spot
where we go to soothe ourselves
on warm sunny days
looking for shells on the bank
or driftwood art
or slow motion barges
and daddy-daughter conversation.
But to a faint harmony we paused
listened
followed
to find a man, alone
blowing his bagpipes
on the soft silty stage
of a leafy proscenium arch
and an audience of solitude
that couldn’t be found
in a house with a spouse
who wants him out
to play his annoying noise.
It was standing-room-only
as the player nodded
appreciatively
breathing feelings
into the kilt colored bag
squeezing them
through reeds
and wooden pipes,
ligneous monks
chanting their divinity.
And as if on cue
the ensemble entered one by one.
The river drummed its tiny breakers
feeder creeks rippled tinkling bells
wind whipped its fluted pitches
and leaves, rubbed their twigs
like horse hair bows on wire strings.
Obligations moved us along
as the symphony kept playing
but we still return
looking for shells
driftwood art
slow motion barges
daddy-daughter conversation
or the lonely man
performing
with his obbligato friends.
