Listening Spirit

~I walk through the park, admiring the still green trees as well as the bold orange and red trees, turning color in the early November days.

I listen: it's quiet, yet loud; I hear the soft breeze as it wisps through the willows. I squint at the sun through the shade of an oak, it is like I can almost hear that huge day-star whispering warmth onto my skin. My bare feet make a soft padding on the old jaded sidewalk, and dulcet crunches as I move onto the leaf-scattered grass. I near the playground now: the festive shrieks of children drift to me across the early autumn air.

Singing. I hear singing now. Broken from my inner trance of thought, I turn to look for the sound. It is that of a man: he sits atop a utility box, a cane in his hand. He sings; a spontaneous song, like something I have never heard before. I recognize bits of it . . . from hymns, the rest seems to be from parts of his heart. He sings on, loudly, then softer. I sit on a swing; I listen to his song, savoring the melody that reverberates from his lungs. I close my eyes, imagining his story through what I can hear.

Now I move on, making my way through the playground, already remembering the Singing Man. I hear a beep, and then another. I turn my head slightly to look upon a business man. He sits at a bench, a good distance away from the sounds of where the children cavort. His grey and balding head tells of years of work. Yet another beep makes its way into the open, and at that point the man removes a small something from his ear and seemingly turns it off; he utters a word that would be better off not being repeated. He sits; still and thoughtful, or maybe wanting to forget his thoughts, who knows? I feel a feeling of trouble from the way he slouches, sighs.

Walking onward , I come back to the cracked sidewalk. The wind spills over me, whipping my hair every-which-way. I think; blocking out the other noises of the world. I think about the Singing Man and the Business Man, but I cannot hear; too deep in my own thoughts I seem to have fallen. I don't hear. I come to the cross-walk and walk on without looking, not realizing where I am. A car, I don't hear, therefore I never looked. Of course nobody noticed, they don't see me. And as the sun moves behind a patch of cotton-clouds, I disappear momentarily. Now I walk along again, listening, roaming here, with no one able to see me, or rather, my spirit. But I am there, listening as a spirit~