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While Fluting by the Full Moon
Written by William Scott Francis
A person sits on the back deck of a home overlooking the Los Angeles. Silhouetted by the light of the full moon, the person holds a long tubular object. With one end to his mouth, a hauntingly beautiful melody comes out the other end. The sound fills the air, and spills off the end of the deck, flowing down the hillside to the streets and homes below.
It touches the ears of an old lady walking down the street, and calms her, feeling a little nervous being out as she was after dark. For her, the world is not as safe as it used to be. These soft sounds, however, made it seem not near as fearful now, as if a friend was walking beside her.
A homeless person on another street, pushing a shopping cart of his few soul possessions, pauses. The music transports him back to better times, when he had a roof over his head, and a soft bed to lie on, instead of the hard concrete. He is touched, if only for a short while, of the beauty of the world that eludes him in the dark alleys and garbage bins that are his life now.
The sounds enter through an open bedroom window of a home. There, a child lays in her bed crying, crying because her parents just had a fight. The father stormed out the door earlier. The wife sat sobbing in a chair in the living room, but after composing herself, she comes in to see after her daughter. Together on the bed, the echoes of the sounds from above soothe both of them, and dry their eyes.
Another person at another home pulls up into his driveway, having just been laid off from his job. He opens the door to his car, and for a brief minute, is comforted by the gentle sounds he hears. He stands there, resting his arm on the top of the car door, listening. It takes the harshness off his memory of being told he had to be let go, and he finds some strength returning inside himself to move on.
A a punk rocker in leather jacket and spiked black hair, with some light blue on the sides comes out of a loud nightclub. His ears are ringing from the noise inside so he does not immediately hear the musical vibrations from above, and does not pay any attention to it. He has other things on his mind.
The young man came from a well-to-do home. His parents, however, were too busy making their money. They always had so many things to do. When they went away to relax, he was left behind to fend for himself. He drew away from them, and eventually ran away from home to find his fun on the streets. On the streets, he turned even colder. He had to, just to survive. People were his only source of income. A wallet here, a purse there. A cash register somewhere else.
That sweet sounds of the Native American flute, though, flowed down from above like the water of a mountain stream. Although it may drift between the homes and echo off the buildings, it does not just fade into nothingness. It goes further, not outward, but further within. It manages to find its way through every little crack and crevice, to matter how high and hard the walls are built.
This young man had his walls built pretty well, having years in which to build them. Yet somehow, the mystic sounds worked its magic even on him. It found a small little pathway down to his heart, so small, he could not have even realized it.
Later that night, long after he had heard the flute music, he started heading into a grocery store. As he did, he passed by a woman putting her groceries in the trunk of her car. The groceries were in plastic bags. While lifting them out of the cart, a bag tore from the weight of its contents. Many of them were can goods. They fell to the pavement, and some started rolling away. Normally, he would not have cared a bit about her problems. This time, he paused, and as one can came rolling toward him, he bent over and picked it up. Then he went on to help the woman with the other things, as well.
The woman was perhaps a little leery of him, but she thanked him kindly. It was a small thing, but very significant for him. The smile she returned him was likewise just as small, but no less insignificant.
The young man never did go into the grocery store. Instead, he just turned, and walked off into the night. . .
--Wm. Scott Francis
My thanks to Traci Rainbold, for she was source of inspiration for this little piece.
