July 29, 2010
This Bill Evans piano is difficult music to write to. It has its own idea of where I am. It puts me back into Ohio, walking the railroad grade, my feet navigating the heavy gravel between the ties, my nose inhaling the creosote bleeding from the ties, my eyes taking the glint from the rails, the scratch from the shrubbery below. On one phrase he has me in summer, a knee bleeding from a fall. Another phrase has me there in winter, a wool cap pulled down over my ears, searching the frozen banks for rabbits, my father close behind.