In passing, I saw Mozart, Beethoven, and Bach all trying their hand, but they were in far off lands in times long past. Now it's the street players, the eager experimenters - the shy traveler - or the energetic child that touch these keys. Keys humming - humming in my mind, anticipating hands to play upon white and black. Stationary and refined with wood structure - wheels to guide music across streets. Waiting.
The days of classical teaching forgotten - the school room abandoned - each note resonating in mind. An instrument left to be touched; to be played if even one person would strike a note. Sitting on angled cement made the sound more prominent - prominent and silent.
They pass without playing. Yet every now and then there is a Master - the master of sound and rhythm who takes a chance to sit at my bench and perform. Perform for the world around them - for anyone willing to listen - for no one to listen and merely for the pleasure of creating sound. Hand to keys and the chords touch hammer to string echoing a resounding voice through buildings and trees - businessmen walking to lunch, homeless panhandling on the streets - the Master plays to change the view of the day. Moving in routine - a new sight seen. Music fills the streets and a painting consumes their ears.
Each key is waiting. Waiting for a hand to push the ivory white bones to life. Two hands to play the soft keys and breath. But for now the keys are humming - humming with anticipation. Waiting for the next adventurer to take the challenge and play.
Find the Instagram photo that inspired this short bit of writing by following @chadosaurus (click on name to see photo).
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