drumming

I was tapping my hands against a smooth metal surface like a car’s roof or a metal barrel. I am not sure what. It produced a resonant, deep sound like a timpani drum. I beat out a rhythm: strong left-hand bass beats punctuated with lighter right-hand accents. It was different to the sounds we are used to hearing in western music; slightly off kilter. A tall African man appeared beside me, intent on the drumming. I stopped but he urged me on. I resumed drumming and for a time the world was pinpointed in the deep sound filling our ears and bodies, pounding through us and making us move. Then, something made me doubt myself. I remembered that I am not a drummer, and I understood that I was drumming in front of someone from another time who was a master drummer. My rhythm faltered. I ceased drumming and woke up.