Outdoor symphony

Some nights, when I wish to escape the caucaphony of distraction, I wander in the direction of water. And there, tonight, I found myself stretched out upon a chaise-like rock, one of the few fingers of a fountain on the pier. A front row seat to the outdoor symphony. In the cool of the late May evening, I lounged in my seat of honor, awaiting the music.

And it's amazing how the ordinary stuff of nature is arranged so artistically from a different perspective. In this case, sideways.

The opening act: nightfall's descent from a sidelong glance, revealing the heaven's wrinkled brow. Creases of stormy blue and pearl and silver. Sailboat masts pierce the sky's brow, stately and stoic, bobbing rhythmically in the bay.

Second act: nature's surround sound increases as my mind's distraction decreases. The distant roar of a train thundering by, wheels squealing intermittently. The more immediate gurgling of the fountain above and below and around me, sometimes, sneaking up behind me. The gentle hum of the wind, blowing through sails and blades of grass. The synchronicity of the outdoors.

Final act: Tall wispy grass bends and dips, shakes and shimmies, plie's and pirouettes, dancing with an invisible partner. Dancing with grace and ease. Dancing because they can.

I close my eyes and open them again slowly, the world around me appearing to spin ever so slightly. I photograph the moment in my memory, knowing this symphony will be here when I return, but never will I see this exact performance repeated.

I sigh, contented. It is time to rest.