#75

Gravel crunching under her worn shoes. Her head held high. Her hand (bearing calloused fingertips) holding a case, scuffed, weathered, loved. She descends stairs, walks along a bobbing and swaying walkway. Her eyes peer across water, drink deeply the view. The case hits the dock with a quiet thump, clasps snap. The guitar is lifted like a newborn babe, like something holy, like a lover called from slumber. The strap is brought over her shoulder, guitar settling comfortably at her stomach. Strings pulled taut, strings loosened. Plucking. Until she is satisfied. And then, a chord rings out, clear, crisp, metallic. And she plays. To the water. To the ducks. To the wind. Her voice bring the day into focus. It is out of place and yet at home. Nearby a woman sits on a bench with earbuds in her ears. She only sees the performer. Does not hear the performance. A man with a bandana, panting and sweating, jogs onto the dock and stands next to the source of the music. He stretches. Re-ties his shoes. Looks out over the water. She continues to play. He continues to stretch. And her, strumming, singing from the very depths of her soul. The song finishes. An edgy silence takes its place. A silence of the typical. Crows. Water lapping at the shore. Cars driving by. Snap snap snap, she closes her lover back into its case, picks it up, and strides away as the lake whispers its applause.