Mozart In The Basement
Chasing dreams, like a paper chase or like rushing forward to catch the balloon that gets away
on an afternoon in March when everything is sunny
and children are laughing on top of the hill.
The ducks are swimming in the pond and the outdoor theatre is empty, except for a few pink programs skirting in the wind among the benches.
The night before, the orchestra had filled the air with sound and the stars were as much a part of the audience as the Siamese cat
draped around the neck and shoulders of the man
with the pipe.
The air smelled of popcorn with a mixture of sweet tobaccos. The air was humid and there was definitely cool air moving in from the north.
The blanket wrapped around my shoulders was a heavy wool one that had topped my uncle's army cot and
I was beginning to hear things.