The Busker

His eyes scan the crowd that assembles before him.  The strumming of his guitar becomes more purposeful and the stomp of his foot more intense.  Unknown faces smile back at his, and hands clap in and out of time with the music, but he hears none of this.  He doesn’t hear the rattle of the passing tram, the scream from rubber being torn at by asphalt, or the splash of coins into the open case before him.  All he hears is the sound caused by the oscillation of each string, singing perfectly to create the song he knows so well.  His head falls back as his world is plunged into darkness, and still the strings prevail.  Even his own voice is no match for the music.  As the last note lingers in the Busker’s ears, like a wave crashing in the night, the world returns with tumultuous applause.