To Riff...

"The piano has been drinking, not me." - Tom Waits

Witching hour, dead of night.
She plays a tune which carelessly drifts out the window,
caresses the trees and they dance in response.
The keys now so familiar,
she finds the notes needed to satiate the craving,
which has been building inside her, spontaneity and spark.
Her fingers move faster, tickling the ivory, pounding the blacks,
A rhythm, a progression...improvised.

She Riffs.

From a G, to B#, an A to Em7
Some call it dissonant, a mess, deconstructive.

But we? We call that Jazz.