The Trumpet Man

And the sound that stopped traffic

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

The sky is low today, pressing its thumb into the top of my head and sighing, as it watches the pavement cling onto the night’s rain.

The first block is always the one I overlook. I know it like the back of my hand, and that’s why I never look. I see it, enough to navigate through it, but I mostly exist in its transit — passing by, passing over, or holding it in my peripheral vision like a smudge on glass.

My mind leaves the body in this block. It’s not so much a spiritual experience as it is a restlessness to arrive home before my body, and to leave it before I’ve even left the door.

Left, then right. It’s the only way out of my street by car. I decide to walk, even though it’s terribly grey. I can see the traffic light that is always red at this hour. The cars congregate to watch the light, clutching their feet and adjusting their gears ahead of time, to save time.

All around me are engines murmuring, and drivers ticking like blinkers through their thoughts. They are sitting there, behind the wheel, but they are not there at all. They are elsewhere in time (it’s always about time.)

We check it. Try to beat it.

I too am watching the red light while thinking about the minutes passing when I hear him.