Sitting on the lawn. Gentle branches overhead. Gentle leaves. (How can leave be gentle.) (They’re the ones with the smooth edging, no sawtooth fronds, so that in the chance that they are clipped off in a rough wind, there is virtually no chance of them cutting up against your skin.) Gentle wind. But that jazz isn’t gentle that blasts back over the audience of the forest preserve. That jazz band up on that chopped up white pine stage isn’t gentle as they squeal discordantly across themselves and leave a tangle of sound and noise in the ears and brains of the fifty odd listeners. No, they ignite that place like an atomic bomb and all those people have their hair blown back by the sound, and their shadows tattooes on the gentle green grass.