Saturday, 26 June 2021

'Kind of Blue' by Conor Montague

Ghosting along damp deserted streets in the pre-dawn gloom, cherry blossoms pale confetti beneath my feet. Mute trumpet keens from an open second floor window.  Flamenco Sketches. A slender woman silhouettes in soft backlight swaying to Coltrane’s tenor saxophone. I stop. Sip of her solitude. Two of us alone together. Tune washing through my veins like primo junk.           

Movement ahead. A fox freezes in the act of crossing. Leaves rustle castanets above our heads. Neither of us should be here yet here we are, skirting the shadows of this toxic city, demonised by the tortured multitudes who will monitor through locked down panes from daybreak. We will be out of sight by then. Curled deep into forgotten crevices. Away from the hostile glance. The accusatory glare.  

But for now, I will dance slow upon drenched petals. Breathe deep of the rain-rinsed breeze. Dream my way to The Church at that moment when the stars aligned and those cats surrendered to the notes and chords and beats, and broke free. Free to lose their selves in the collective. Free to find the collective in their selves. Free to distil the pungent mash of the past into one pure present.

One take. Those cats nailed it in one take.



---

First published by Reflex Fiction, 16 March 2021.

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