Waltzing Along
A ho-hum evening after days of cloud and rain. A walk that's uninspired, plodding. The houses hold no surprises, and the clouds are uniform, without color or texture.
The music in my ears is plodding, too. Tunes heard too often. A switch to news makes little difference.
And then my ears hit the jackpot, a change of tempo. It's a waltz. Not an obvious one or a schmaltzy one, but I'd recognize 3/4 time anywhere. I find myself counting 1,2, 3; 2,2,3; 3,2,3. Almost hypnotic, that beat. And liberating, too.
It's like a transfusion. I pick up the pace, I loosen the shoulders. My arms swing more freely by my side. And soon I'm on the downhill slope, toward home and dinner.
The music in my ears is plodding, too. Tunes heard too often. A switch to news makes little difference.
And then my ears hit the jackpot, a change of tempo. It's a waltz. Not an obvious one or a schmaltzy one, but I'd recognize 3/4 time anywhere. I find myself counting 1,2, 3; 2,2,3; 3,2,3. Almost hypnotic, that beat. And liberating, too.
It's like a transfusion. I pick up the pace, I loosen the shoulders. My arms swing more freely by my side. And soon I'm on the downhill slope, toward home and dinner.
<< Home