Autumn Song
The screaming bandsaw in the distance trumpets like a doped up horn player ripping the back off a smoking hot piece of bop.

While behind you -


- over and over again -


- a give it all you got at the top of your lungs -


- carries up from the Special Ed school at the end of the block.

In the trees, the colors of a dying camp fire dance to the free jazz.

The squeaky brakes of a passing van - that’s high hat.

The crows caw ?

A black girl doing scat.