Round Midnight

This saxophone is made of miles of silver and each finger on each key touches the truth. His fingers dance over her keys like the crackle of electricity sparking over the eternal wires beneath the sublime, animating the ethereal under and around us. She speaks in riddles but just because we don't immediately understand does not mean she hasn't just said the names of each and every one of us and just because these stories have been told before, just because the same tale was told by Dizzy, by Ella, by Bird, by Miles, even by Kirk Whalum, doesn't mean that each time, each and every time, the tale was not freshly spun. The sound curls through the air towards us and cradles in our earlobes and, like a newborn child, declares this home and falls asleep.