The vital peal of a jazz band’s brass radiated pulsating warmth onto the dark, autumnal street. The pale moon hung celestial: vengeful puppeteer of the sea.
A tidal hush swelled over the vast city.
Drums pounded. Chocolate bass notes thumped a line. The saxophonist blew, releasing his soul in a throbbing cry of cosmic rapture. The ominous hush deepened as the sea crept closer.
Closer, closer. The old trumpeter felt it. The furtive tide would drown him; he wasn’t strong enough to hold his breath.
But, without music, what was he?
Desolation corrupted him, and with him drowned the final sound.