The sun blazed in on a clear blue sky, the land kept cool from those rays by
	perfectly consistent occasional clouds. A gray one sprinkled us, a spray of rain and a little shade from the California heat.

Rhythm. And there is rhythm here. The rhythms you can only get from putting

twenty drums together, kick, snare, bongo, twenty people beating to each other's own rhythm. Old grizzled gray bearded African American man, some blonde guy with missing teeth, a nappy chested thirty year old, a smoking overweight cornrow braided guy. A large chested woman in a white bra and a see through tank top, a 6'6'' guy in a green tank top, sweating. His drum hangs from his shoulder strap and supported between his legs. Shaved sides of head, and wavy long hair tied at the back of his scalp, dangling between his shoulder blades. A lady with a gray Afro.

About five people have stopped on the guard railed walkway above us to watch,

to listen. A biker dude circles the drummers. A bald headed seventeen year old beats between a chanting then screaming long haired blond guy who alternates between beating on the bench and his bongo. Cigarettes, freshly lit, set on the bench, fall off from the vibration, landing on the ground but casting their smoke skyward. Someone picks one up and takes a pull while a gyrating guy tokes from his joint. A flutist opens up. Two people join the toker, one a bland looking male, his braless girlfriend in a thing t-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination. They all three embrace. An old black guy takes a couple of empty beer cans and matches rhythm by knocking the aluminum against the concrete, scraping occasionally. Wrinkling the metal.

Another breaks out some cowbells, and knocks to his own beat, taking some
	of the drummers with him as the rhythms change again.

This man in front of me, beautiful bronze skin, tan overalls, the sweat

glistens down his shoulders and back, he raises his head skyward, he follows his rhythm. The tall guy in the green tank top starts singing. Not in English. Singing, just singing. The sun drifts father down. The rhythm continues. This wraith-thin pretty girl sits down next to me, slightly wets her lips, and sways to the rhythm. Her legs, her skin is absolutely clear, unblemished, smooth. Maybe slightly more than five feet tall, nary more than ninety pounds. Deep set eyes, dark. Rail thin. Young. Hair tied back.

A black man, in front of me, black wire sunglasses, no shirt, straw hat, the
	moisture rises to the surface of his perfect flesh, collects and shines back at the heating sun. A cloud break passes over. His sweat collects about the silver chain tightly strung about his neck. A blue bandana wearing white guy walks in with his drum and joins to his own rhythm.

Various passers by witness, stay, leave. A white woman starts to dance and a
	frisbee crowd nearby sails their disk over our heads.

A little black boy gets his shot at a drum, orange shirt, dark blue jeans, bald
	head. His eyes stare wide, he beats sporadically. Rhythm.

People clap, they scream, they yell. The clouds pass overhead, the sun drifts.
	The crowd thins, the passers by become fewer. The goatee drummer leaves, the tall one leaves, the drummers thin.

I think I'll go home and write.