A busker searching her fretboard for a song, freestyling all out of her head in blue evening light. Invisible colors, the guitar strings and the strings between stars. Not just the stars in the sky but the stars behind the buildings and the stars under the planet. Sing the pastries out of café glass. Call the birds to your feet. You don’t see my face, my eyes, you see colors, you see roses and sunflowers, you don’t know what you see. A nocturne, rising above and falling below radio static. The stars all around you all the time.