A new workday begins announced only by bird chatter and wind-pushed palm branches. All the booted players assemble on the red dirt stage. String lines are snapped taut at batter boards— stakes freshly pounded deep into firm soil by callused hands. The parameters are marked, and the dance ignites at this street.
Heavy trucks, burdened with their delivery, create that cumbersome waltz with high-pitched beeps and grinding low gears. New rumbly tones resonate down the chutes and onto the ground. The already over-heated orchestra begins their clamor-song in the direct sun.
This movement plays for hours until the instruments grow silent for a humble rest in the shade of a palm. The players lay aside their noisemakers for a sip of ice-cold lemonade and comradery. But the man that holds the wand still presses to create the next musical staff and measure as it plays in his mind.
The refreshed group resume their places and take up their instruments. This tangible melody resonates and takes a visual shape. And, at the end of the day, after cleaning their instruments, the music indelibly exists.
There it is, the foundation— not to be altered, it is perfect. The Composer’s body can rest, but his mind is focused on the following stanza.
This weathered artist creates next-day notes and elements in symmetry for the music resides in his mind, as it had for years and is only now poised for composure.
At sunrise, the players regather with assorted instruments and warm-up to pound out the notes for the day’s work. The ever-reluctant boards receive their measured cuts in staccato. Materials are brought together, lifted in turn, sealed with a thud or a deep-throated zip, then held in place as the harmony dance continues.
On occasion, the piece reveals a sway of debits and credits. Hearts skip a beat while chasing that affordable purse and the music magic falters. On occasion, the balance may lose its cadence— a complexity of scope.
The lengthy movement requires a metered purse to complete the work. Many souls cringe at the paced effort, but beauty is like that, hard-fought and worth the blood and sweat spent.
Now the harmonious work is subject to a testing heat— to melt it down, remove the dross and weave it back into the composition- affordability forced into tempo by the man with the wand.
Onlookers and players anticipate those furthering chords.
Out of the pause comes a slow strum again. The quietest measuring tape snaps, then other instruments take the beat and intertwine. Soon the entire orchestra is in swing again, with sounds never heard as a song before.
Countless workers, vendors, and passers-by join in the complex harmony and dance as days march into months. Each pencil mark and screw add to the other to compose a structured and permanent work. The pulled wires and pipes weave their magic with the advantage of their influence.
Talent, perseverance, and patience each add to the melody and sealed with the scent of warm sawdust— gifts from God fully recognized by these beneficiaries.
Over time, the Composer’s arms grow weary for the weight and duration of the work. Every sunset the instruments rest, but he labors over each element long after the days’ dust settles. His late toiling reaches deep into every night until the longs and shorts create a complete canvas for the next stanza.
A new sunrise and the work song begins anew. The sander’s whine against the resistant board and the air compressor reignites its rhythmic motor; it all comes together within its perfect cadence. This sheet music has taken physical shape— and it sings even now, in its framed state.
Some may shut their windows for the loud whirring chords of a table saw or the rapping beat of a nail gun, but this song now lives on this street. It was created with weathered hands, numbers, and ingenuity— now livable and resounds within its trimmed and painted walls.
After the wounds heal and the sweat is washed away, this hard-fought home song will continue long after the crescendo. But the diligent Composer’s unwritten notes, even now, resist their slumber.
Song of the Composer by Diana Warren
