a melody drifts

Beneath a sky dipped in honeyed fire,
where the day sighs into dusk,
a melody drifts like magnolia perfume
through the winding heart of the Quarter.
Brick walls burn with golden glow,
balconies bloom with ferns like soft jazz notes,
and the gaslight flickers with memory.

Three silhouettes—horns in hand—
breathe life into the street,
each note a prayer, a story,
a second line stitched in sound.
Cobblestones remember the rhythm of footsteps,
of parades, of slow dances and sweet sorrow,
as New Orleans sways gently,
forever alive,
forever singing.