They were –
standing on the bridge,
looking over the water.
They were talking –
in their own words,
their own language.
The misty clouds covering the city.
The tops of the buildings just vaguely visible.
I myself just flying through,
the cold wind against my chest,
raindrops in my face.
My words, gently cutting fog,
become forest, mountain, ocean.
I am the seagull:
a stranger at home,
at home at the waters.
One guitar, one ototo, two voices. They sit at the edge of the park, opposite the town’s hospital, separated from it only by a busy street. Inspiration. The weather? The street? No, a man urinating behind or, from their perspective, in front of a tree. Why this urge of many a male to empty oneself against something? It’s worth a song, anyways.
Instruments on their backs, bicycles in their hands. They walk along the park, towards the river. In awe: At the sight of the cloudy grey, black, red, blue ocean that takes over the sky. East, the blue sky melts into threatening darkness. A natural Rothko (is there something like an artificial Rothko?). In awe: At the pushing and pulling of the storm, the cold reality of raindrops. Bodies they are. Alive.
Two bodies, at the window inside the café on the corner – safe haven, boat, aquarium in one. They watch the lightning on the other side of the glass, yearning for someone to switch the lights off. They listen carefully to hear the thunder drowning in the café music. Inside out. Outside in. Rain pours down next to their table.
Relevant words break pleasant silence. From ecstasy to serenity, utter calmness found in storm.