Singing and confluence

Walking to work today I passed a plot of grass being watered by sprinklers. The sprinklers were well positioned to cover the maximum amount of grass without dousing passers-by (although it is always a little bit fun to negotiate sprinklers and think about childhood and rain and play). But the middle sprinkler was placed just so that the full force of the water hit the pole of a street sign at the very left-most edge of its range, just as it turned back. Which made the street sign sing. It sang, to me and to the cars and to the clouds and to everyone, every 20 seconds.

And then I thought about the confluence of things. Of the moments when things join up, touch one another, glance off of one another. Of the kiss of connection. Of items in their own cyclical patterns occasionally brushing up against one another. And, in that brushing against, one sometimes finds a song. I like things that sing when touched. I like things that resonate. When the circumstances are just right and the moment is silvery, on the tip of the tongue, until the vocal chords breathe of their own accord, singing, singing singing singing, singing a song of connection.