Hello, and thanks for having me. The few times I’ve been asked to guest blog somewhere, I’ve been extremely flattered and extremely petrified. Right now, it’s the petrified part I’ve got in my teeth. But nothing better than a room full of strangers to make you feel comfortable, right? (Hello, again.)

It’s taken me awhile to write this post, a clumsy draft of a poem came out first instead, and then there was dinner to be made, and then an old Dean Martin movie was on, and THEN, you won’t believe this—a brass band, full-outfits and all—went marching down the center of my street. So, of course, I had to go out, listen on the stoop for a while and clap as they marched by. An accidental soundtrack for the muggy Brooklyn night. It was oddly comforting, not the usual adjective for the loud horns clanging open the dark, but it wasn’t just the big sound they made. It was the on-lookers, all the open doors to the street, the families on their stoops. Women in their bathrobes, and little kids waving in t-shirts too big to walk in.

All of this happened in a matter of mere minutes. As if, the entire street was ready for any excuse to come out and cheer somebody on. Now, of course, this is the time of year when there are a lot of celebrations, the local Feast, the local church fundraiser and so forth, but what’s nice is that everyone seems prepared to run outside, at any minute, just as they are and whoop and yell.

It’s not just the surprise of it, but the brevity of it. I love a brass band, but a brass band outside your window for eight hours in the evening might lose its charm as you lose your patience. But they’re just walking by, passing through, you’ve got to quick, run out now, catch ‘em while you can. That’s the joy—the thick silence that surrounds it. The hole it leaves in the sky.

What it reminds me of…is poetry. That quick fix of something brief and powerful. The surprise of something finding you unexpectedly, moving you so much that you’ll run out in your yoga clothes, bare feet, and glasses on, give your neighbor a smile and dance awkwardly but without shame. And long after they’re gone, you can still hear the tuba in your chest, slowly changing your pulse to something livelier. That’s what good poetry does for me. Puts a big sound into the night and then lets silence suck it out so its absence reverberates still.

At least, that’s what I hope for, as a reader, as a writer, as someone just waiting for that first note of a brass band to keep me up just a little bit longer. But for now, good night. Hope a brass band comes your way soon, or at least a poem.