#70

He stood up tall, proud. His denim worn, holes in knees, near the pockets, at the ankles. His white shoes were gray, tied in neat bows. His wrinkled shirt tucked in. In front of his overturned hat, he abruptly begins to sing. The music, pitch perfect. The delivery, off somehow.  "Doe, a deer, a female deer..." Passersby avert their eyes in discomfort and continue on, weaving among one another, picking up and putting down orange carrots, purple beets, yellow soaps, golden honeys. The man continues to sing, and across the way, a woman in a blue apron, making tiny dutch pancakes in her cast iron molds hums along as she turns her creations with a toothpick. Still humming, she smiles at a woman walking by, and the sadness she felt towards the singer dissipates. Continuing on, the woman doesn't get far before she finds that she is humming it as well. A sonic contagion, spreading its way through the Sunday market.