I can hear the marching band coming when it is still blocks away. I drop my paint brush, lace up my sneakers and go outside to watch. It is some kind of Masonic parade, somber black suits punctuated with strange white aprons, winged purple wrist cuffs, red vests adorned with six pointed stars. They are walking to a stiff version of "Amazing Grace" attenuated with extensive drum solos.

Now I am waiting for the rain that has been threatening all afternoon to finally break. The last light of day is bouncing back from a mirror in the living room. A black cat is stalking pigeons on the roof of the grocery store, and now here comes the call to evening prayer from the mosque, swirling, diving, getting increasingly urgent before fading out.