evening practice

A rare thing happened yesterday when I was walking the dog last night down E. 2nd Street at around 6pm, while many other people just home from work and school also walked their dogs. I imagine that in the kitchens some were busy at their stoves. I can't know that for sure, I didn't smell anything at all, and a good thing too, because it would have made me hungry. It was possible to tell some of what those inside the houses were up to, though, from the way the empty street became a tunnel of massive plane trees that resonated with the sound of piano ringing from the sitting rooms inside. One played Oh Holy Night at the East end of the block, then towards the West, a classical piece I can't name but which none the less brought me to tears. Somewhere in the middle, a few phrases of saxophone coming out of a house that seemed too small for the sound. It was sad to leave the strange blind theater the street had become, where the instruments and their songs seemed so much bigger than the houses that held them, and the players remained completely anonymous. It was, I suppose, another instance of the generous offerings the people of Brooklyn often leave in front of their houses.