guitars

Downstairs, a round plung of a guitar being tuned. Now something bluesy: dup, dup, dup, daoooa, dup, dup, dup--the hollow thunk of a guitar being put down, murmur of voices. Outside the rain falls straight down on the mail carrier, a man with square shoulders and square red face who, on hot days, flushes as red as Santa Claus. Like a spoon serving up mashed potatoes, the sunshine rounds off thick cloud cover. Does that make any sense? I know that last sentence didn't, and neither does this day--sunny, cold, rainy, sunny and rainy, drafty, warm. . .a capricious day.

Oh, the guitars are picking up. Soon Frank's harmonica will cut through the strumming. I should be down there--we're supposed to be practicing to play in the Harvest Festival this weekend. But I just needed a few minutes to surface from the sea of friends and children who have jigged through the house today. My head feels a bit ragged, the coffee I poured three hours ago is (surprise!) cold, and I just now--at four o'clock in the afternoon--managed to brush my hair from my morning shower. One of those good days, packed like fresh basil leaves into a cup--fragrant, dense, a whole summer in an hour.

I'm not making too much sense, people. Better go down and join the musicians.