By Rory Jones
As you walk down the path your steps slowly turn into a beat. The birds’ tweets are like the sound of flutes. The wind is a quiet saxophone whispering in your ear, there’s a soft snap, snap, snap, as the violins pluck their strings when you step on a stick. You move to the side as you hear a bass come running by at its own, very fast beat. But you still walk to your own pace keeping the beat of your own song. You get drowned out by all the trumpets and tubas trying to run the world, but if you listen closely you can hear the continuous thump, thump, thumping, of yourself, walking down the musical path.
As you walk down the path your steps slowly turn into a beat. The birds’ tweets are like the sound of flutes. The wind is a quiet saxophone whispering in your ear, there’s a soft snap, snap, snap, as the violins pluck their strings when you step on a stick. You move to the side as you hear a bass come running by at its own, very fast beat. But you still walk to your own pace keeping the beat of your own song. You get drowned out by all the trumpets and tubas trying to run the world, but if you listen closely you can hear the continuous thump, thump, thumping, of yourself, walking down the musical path.
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