Waves, the clashing rhythm section cymbals.
Roof rain, the drummer’s brushes.
Setting sun, the light show.
Monterey pines dance to the music.
The sky pregnant with clouds of all colors and shapes
all ready for the concert
Strangers mingle on the deck
and watch the sea and sun
and they wait.
Finally it's time for the gentle grandfather
on the tenor.
He walks old but bold.
His smile twinkles.
His shirt of many colors,
clearly a flag to follow.
His sidemen young enough to be carded.
In every seat a jazz lover.
Leaning against the wall,
sitting on the stairs.
In the church this Sunday afternoon,
the house is full:
overflowing.
The wine is communed
in reverence to the gentle one.
The service begins.
His first note is golden.
He plays young.
He plays soul.
Solos played,
the passion of the tenor
even strums the guitar.
Higher, faster with youthful energy.
demands the piano
to a higher plane.
Every piece surpasses the one before.
Each fan know
it can't get any better.
And all too soon; intermission.
A roomful left dumb with awe.
Then the shouting, clapping audience
acclaims a master piece.
Catch a breath held too long.
Back to the deck just
to be alone among so many.
Outside the sun is setting
and the taste of music
is washed with sunset beauty.
A glass of wine
a communion salute
to a master.
And this taste of wine and music
is washed with sunset's beauty,
jazz lovers are silent.
They watch the sunset
and try to remember
instead of think.
Will the next set be better?
Or is time to go home
with perfection?