Summertime jazz

Summer, long days, hot sidewalks, buskers. As I strolled on my One Street in evening light around 8:30 p.m., I heard "Misty" poured over the day like mint chocolate sauce, smooth and sweet and cool. I followed the sound and found this beautiful young man; listened to him improvising his own riffs, waited till he took a break and asked him where he learned to play like that.

"Toronto?" he asked me with a sweet Canadian up-tick in his voice.

His hands shook slightly, and he spoke so softly I could barely hear him.

"Been busking long?" I asked.

"Not long," nervously. I left him a dollar and my card, in case he wants the pictures. Four more pictures of him are here. I thought about his mother, maybe still in Toronto, hoping the best for her thin, shy boy with his beautiful bone structure and his long, clever fingers, probably much like hers. I could hear him for several blocks.

Too hot for dinner, I bought a small watermelon, my first this summer. I'm going to eat some of it now.

Still playing catch-up with comments, still not caught up, so I'll leave mine off a while longer.