Music to my ears

One of my favorite things about wandering New York ... and anywhere people gather, for that matter ... is the music they make as they rub their collective body parts together (figuratively).

All those voices melding, and serving as counterpoints, with each other; all those accents dancing in and out; all those fragmented conversations intertwined in a 300-square mile tapestry of sound makes me wish I composed grand, vast symphonic works.

Sometimes the voices are just crickets in a distance. Other times they cicada in the trees above me.

The other day in the glen everything fell eerily silent, and one note broke free and soared into my head.

It was a man's voice ... Queens, probably, but maybe Brooklyn, possibly on the cusp of both ... a little on edge, not at all happy.

"No, Bro, you don't get it! I fuckin' lost Jimmy in Times Square! ... I don't fuckin' know ..."

That was all I got. It floated in the air for a second and then was swallowed by the rest of the crickets as they brought their legs together and started critching again.

I don't know if the mook ever found Jimmy or if Jimmy really wanted to be found, but I wanted to thank both men publicly for adding a single golden thread to my sonic wall-hanging.

Thanks, guys.