Don Byas’s tenor saxophone whispers.
They’re not there but I sense the lyrics:
Till the tune ends
We’re dancing in the dark,
And it soon ends.
Beyond the vibrato I could swear I hear crickets.
Like you, like him perhaps,
I still want a beach, salt air, and waves,
an amorous dance under palms come sunset.
We’re waltzing in the wonder
of why we’re here.
Isn’t Fall too far off for crickets today?
I crave a self-portrait I can label lover.
I’m not frightened exactly. It’s something other.