god_with_a_black_eye fyn gula he walked outside, the screen door slammed in his ear again scattering the stray cat who had feathers in her mouth. there was distant music in the air like the pleasant fragrance of honeysuckle across the street. it was the sound of happiness one finds on accident. the noise of celebration one discovers wasn't in a dream but right beyond the open window. he walked past the late blooming tulips and looked beyond the lilacs, drooping with heavy blossoms. nature is drunk on spring. coming down the bianca strada, two aged italian men in ferre suits, both holding french horns, lips pursed to mouthpieces, playing "roma gitano." it had rained maybe an hour earlier and now the sun was out bathing the warm road behind them with a blinding, white light that made them appear like abandoned angels. he sang the words to himself as he listened to the fragile melody, for he had sung it off-key many times as a child in firenze. and as they finished, the sun was hidden by swollen clouds like God with a black eye. that's when he saw them smile. "oggi vendiamo ed ora ci sentiamo," the old man on the right said. the horn seemed heavy, carried as some form of penance. "today we see," he translated the italian to himself, this lonely american. "and now we hear." those little things that happen. 010504 ... sabbie those_little_things_that_happen thank you fyn 010516 ... god ow 010516 ... paste! couldn't handle uygnirs 020618 what's it to you? who go blather from