The Magic of Rhythm

The two rhinoceroses were hired for the same parade and immediately disliked each other’s rhythm. The colourful one moved in bursts; the grey one kept a heavy, steady step. Musicians chose sides. Even the birds argued over the correct tempo. The smallest clown, whose cart squeaked too badly to join either group, sat between them and listened.

Beneath the noise he heard a pattern: colour—pause—grey—squeak. He tapped it on the road. The rhinoceroses answered without meaning to. Instruments followed, then wings.

Their rhythms did not become identical; they became necessary to one another. The parade entered town sounding like no orchestra anyone knew. People called it magic. The clown knew it was something rarer: difference that had been listened to long enough.