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Thursday night.
It's a big, strong rain coming down right now, and there's people's voices right alongside it - I can't tell from here if they're inside or outside, if they're under umbrellas or if it's coming through open windows, if they're on a nearby rooftop or inside somewhere. All I can do is listen to a multitude of voices, people's voices, some louder than others. They don't sound like children and nobody's shouting, and there's moments of laughter and moments of what might be singing, but it's hard to tell with the rain.
There's some strong voices in the mix, consistent ones, and I can't tell how many people are there. It might not be many. It might be a few who know each other really well, it might be people who've never spoken before tonight. There's the rain coming down and there's the sounds of some low-flying planes over the Hudson, and there's some people, their voices constant even as the rain shifts and lessens or heavies. There's words I can't make out, not even the shape of them, not even a guess if they're talking about friends or family or work or school, children or weddings or going to the movies. Brief encounters in the park, long moments on the street. What's changed since they last talked, whenever that might be.
There's what might be arguments, there's what might be agreements, there's what might be jokes with punchlines. I can't hear all that well if anyone can believe what they're hearing or if they think it's someone pulling their leg. And they keep talking. No matter what's happening over there, no matter what the topic is, they're still talking. As the rain comes in and as it goes out and as it comes in again, there's the chorus of human voices, with sharp sounds rising up from the rain, with people joining together to be the unmistakable sound of a party, and brief moments of what I hope is laughter. On this, the first night of the year that it's been possible to have such sounds. Wherever they're coming from, to reach me where I am.
There's some strong voices in the mix, consistent ones, and I can't tell how many people are there. It might not be many. It might be a few who know each other really well, it might be people who've never spoken before tonight. There's the rain coming down and there's the sounds of some low-flying planes over the Hudson, and there's some people, their voices constant even as the rain shifts and lessens or heavies. There's words I can't make out, not even the shape of them, not even a guess if they're talking about friends or family or work or school, children or weddings or going to the movies. Brief encounters in the park, long moments on the street. What's changed since they last talked, whenever that might be.
There's what might be arguments, there's what might be agreements, there's what might be jokes with punchlines. I can't hear all that well if anyone can believe what they're hearing or if they think it's someone pulling their leg. And they keep talking. No matter what's happening over there, no matter what the topic is, they're still talking. As the rain comes in and as it goes out and as it comes in again, there's the chorus of human voices, with sharp sounds rising up from the rain, with people joining together to be the unmistakable sound of a party, and brief moments of what I hope is laughter. On this, the first night of the year that it's been possible to have such sounds. Wherever they're coming from, to reach me where I am.