They are cast in the shadows of thick,
grey clouds beneath sheets of
drizzling rain-sounds. Tiny fingers
are tapping on reverberant walls
when at once, he puts a record on of
lonely pianos playing.
Brewing dark liquids, they contemplate...
Yet coffee is not the only brew. There is
also a melting pot of atmosphere and sound,
sparking great and heavy ideas, causing him
to ponder life and death and all that does
and does not matter.
A steam rises from the rim of his cup,
where heat kissed the harvest air, as
a minor chord then rises in time
with this click of a droplet's rhythm.
He blinks, finding then that he is
alone, and lost in that flow
of song and spirit and sound.