Around the hemisphere, the buzz begins. Carried first by the remnant leaves rustling the word, birds in chevron flight pick up the lilt, tilt and wheel back in their invisible tracks toward Toronto. Trains, in surreal motion, leap their tracks, hitch a ride on their own freight cars, and move in the gathering dusk toward Toronto. Ships at sea, some weeks away from their destinations, under flags of convenience, stow the flags, and make for Toronto harbour. Choruses of hummingbirds hover on street corners, oiling their doowops in anticipation; old bluesmen in broken down spaces slatted every which way against the sunlight, turn over in bed and smile where their gold teeth, now gracing the pawnbroker's desk drawer, used to be. Managers of downatheels hotels close and lock their doors with a Sunday sigh, reach into their pockets and bring out a ten, hand it to the hooker performing the essential task of holding up the front wall of the hotel, and go their way, heading for the Tranzac, their shoes picking up a step. Out of a thousand Presbyfundapiscopaleadventist churches, sweetly dressed old ladies tuck their Bibles away into their purses, and consider the blues. Taxi drivers, thinking of heading for home, pause, and over the sqwak box comes the word, Rick Fielding at the Tranzac tonight, and they smile, catch sight of themselves in the rearview, and head towards Brunswick in expectant swarms. The moon, just past full, considers breaking the laws of astronomy, and checking out, but reconsiders, and merely hopes to hear soft strains filtering up into the late night sky. For the word is out. Rick Fielding at the Tranzac tonight.