Austin after dark, by ear

Dusk, at the river rail. The loudest thing in my notebook is a folding stool. Its legs snap open and the Bat Bridge Sentinel settles in beside me. I spend ten minutes trying to hear what she's watching. When something finally lifts off over the water, the sound I catch is half a dozen jacket sleeves brushing the rail as everybody leans forward.

Later, on Rainey. From the sidewalk the music comes in bars: four beats when a door swings open, almost nothing when it shuts. A wheel on a hand truck rattles over a seam in the pavement. I can follow the empty bottles all the way around the corner without seeing who is pulling them.

Last page, walking home. Under a porch light I read back what I wrote. No set list, no names, no recording to play for anyone. Just a stool opening, a door closing, and glass knocking against glass. I put a little square beside the first sound. That's where I'll start the drawing tomorrow.