Author

Whirling Dervish

I come to a break in the trees where you can see downtown. Nearby somebody is playing a trumpet. I notice the occasional strained note, it’s a difficult instrument. Whoever it is is good and believes in themself. I walk farther and then see him—a boy, 10 or 11— standing in his drive, playing his trumpet with all his heart, while another boy on a bike and wearing a red hoodie, circles around and around and around him, a whirling dervish.

«

»