A Jazz Morning.

It is a jazz morning. Most winter mornings are. The nights linger long these days. The sun is scarcely awake at 8 am, and even then it is a faint yellow ripple at the horizon. This is where the horns and drums live – that fading moment between coming and going. The piano is scattered in the apartment lights and the high-hat hisses in the early tirespin. The trumpet arrives in the bus. The saxophone arrives in office woman perfume. The guitar slides in from behind. The bass was always there – too low to notice until now. And somewhere in the hanging city smoke is the studio noise; the audible inhale before the reed is shaken by exhaust; the low count of the drummer just under the accidental tom; the foot pressing the piano pedal. All those things are decidedly unmusical yet somehow they make music more real. All those deliciously improvised imperfections lay down a path of dead ends and arbitrary berms that make the drab of winter seem brighter; more bearable.