Ways of Songs

       Thingumy and Bob stole a guitar and sang ballads about dragons, blue as the sky, at a square in front of the city station. Humans and Hemulens rushed past and by, dragging their suitcases to their trains and taxis. They were going on visits, on business trips, and they did not dream of dragons at all. Moomintroll would have listened to a dragon song, but he lived far away, in a blue house in a green valley, and he slept when the valley was turning white. He dreamed of clouds and dragons, both of any colour, of distant countries, deserted paths where one wanderer walks, peering from under his hat at mountain peaks, at sea waves. (White-crested both, but their life span so different.) And at night, after coaxing a fire to life, he would take out a harmonica and fall silent in waiting: a melody needs to grow accustomed, to warm up, to send its aerial roots into the rustle of the wind, to gather the murmur from a spring, the sighs from the sea… Or perhaps, pepper it with the clatter of iron wheels? And at a wayside railway halt, where the grass is waist-high, a vagabond might nod to two little critters with a guitar and walk on, disappearing into the fog. But perhaps Thingumy and Bob will take his silhouette and his footsteps into their song. And he will borrow their three guitar chords into a melody.