the busker and my rice bowl

There was a man in the middle of the court. He was playing some guitar melodies that were carried out into the hollow expanse of the harbor for which he preformed.
I sat on a bench where a bridge loomed in the backdrop overseeing the passing of boats. A child was led by her father into the courtyard where a dozen pigeons lingered. The air was heavier than the sound of our musings but lighter than music - which produced a swallowed version of quiet.
The sun was high in the sky - a cold winter day disguised as the first breath of spring - like the winter's only chance to feel the glory of popularity before finally accepting it's seasonal passing.
The birds, unknowingly submitted themselves to an artful display - as they rose up in front of the sun arced outward, spinning towards their next perch while momentarily impeding the light that warmed our cheeks. The light fluttered upon us as wings caught wind and swept them to the sky.

I enjoyed my bowl of rice and veggies and felt the numb tip of my nose.
Allison played with Tucker and tried to keep him from fussing.
I caught myself breathing the salt air and longing for a distant destination.
All is well today.