Every walk I take is a performance,
A concert for next to no one
With no instruments to speak of
Save for the rhythm of my feet
As one step follows another
To the solid beat of my gait,
Stride staying steady
As I cross paths and walkways,
Each one a measure
In the score of my day.

Every path is a dance
That my feet will follow
Without my attention
As I conduct myself
From start to finish.

Some days I perform to silence,
The rhythmic scrape of shoes
Wearing themselves thin
On the asphalt and concrete
Interrupted by nothing
But the wild blown wind,
The rough-fabric rustle
Of the overgrown grass,
And the whir of darting birds
As they protest my passage.

Other days there is music.
Carefully contained,
It is delivered to me alone
And I find my rhythm
Shifting to match.

Once I performed for another,
I had an audience for every beat
As I scraped and stepped
Through my daily concert,
My voice joining in
To add melody and music
My gait alone could not match,
And only the wind in the grass
Could hope to meet our volume
As we happily harmonized.

Those days of harmony
Have long since passed
And I find solace
In a solo performance
And my own solitude. 

There was no sudden sundering,
We simply pursued personal projects
While I slowly learned
That “alone” and “accompanied”
Aren’t opposites but options, 
That there is beauty in being
Composer of tempo and tune,
That there’s more to me than harmony,
And that anyone who assigns silence
Isn’t interested in my music.

Now I’m content with the company
Of the meandering music made
by my own two feet
And I find my freedom
Away from any overbearing beat.