Music drifts through my open window. The ghosts of drums, voices, old rhythms stilling the chatter of a hundred thousand insect serenades. Tiny loves blending through the expansive shades of black.
The unknown words speak fluently of all I cannot say. My heart greets them as if I’ve travelled with them all my life, these night sky birds that soar, float, fly and see everything.
This beauty comes unbidden. It haunts a moment, longing for what is lost and loved, and then sinks back into darkness and silences, waiting. It speaks for me, weeps for me, shivering for my happy griefs.
Joy rises in the quiet songs, settles on the banana trees and dusts the dull red earth. When I stretch out my open hands I feel its warmth.
I never know where it comes from, where it begins or ends. I love it more because it is not mine, I cannot catch it. Because I must listen. Because it is always floating away.