We are creatures forever subject to the whims of weather.
A weekend of bluegrass music,
interrupted by eruptions of
sweet rain and thunder and lightning and wind,
The organic music played by tree instruments goes well
with a good thunderstorm.
We flock to cover as the air turns bluish purple and
we wait, and while we wait we stomp our
feet together and raise our voices together,
because a storm can’t stop the music, no,
rather it feeds the music because the music
is in our heartbeats and the storm makes our hearts beat
Faster, stronger, and we dance and hum and
squeal when the lightning dances with us because
it is bigger than us.
We drink in the plump air and the music only keeps growing until
it flows out of every pore.
Inside the warehouse there is a circle of singers
harmonizing on spirituals,
they feel the storm they feel the music they feel each other
erupting, spurting, gushing, flowing outward,
the mud is growing thicker,
there are people sliding and running and wrestling,
the storm keeps dancing and we keep dancing and there is fullness
and the air is saturated with water and music and we are too and it all
keeps flowing on and on and on.


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