Wednesday, November 30, 2005

A Bluegrass Festival on the Hillside

Midnight campfires
twinkle under the summer stars.
Someone tunes a mandolin
in the warm July darkness. Then
a harmony of voices begins.
Further up the hill
a battle of banjo and fiddle
under a canopy near the trees.
The sound of your guitar
draws me to our campsite.
The propane lantern on the table hisses.
You stand in a tight circle
of friends, following the thread
of the song. Without a pause,
you smile as I move
into the circle of light.
The musicians are fired up -
you will play until sunrise.
I slip out of the lamplight.
In our little tent
I listen as the shifting breeze
takes the songs drifting up the hill
and composes its own music.

Published in the Spring / Summer 2004 Issue of Pine Island Journal of New England Poetry.

1 comment:

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