Alone, beneath a stone bridge in Central Park, a man paints the air with the warm tones of his saxophone. The pearl keys, long faded amidst the worn brass, showing the time and love that had been given both to and through this instrument. I sat for three songs as each rolled into the other, the soft undulating waves of harmonies echoing off the cold stones, vibrations cast far beyond the light. The man barely opened his eyes, and when he did it was not to see, but just a fleeting sense of awareness as he stood, beneath the bridge, illuminated by sound.