Forty-seven degrees on a rare windless night in Wyoming. I’m pulled over off the road, car running, got the windows rolled down, airing out the sleepiness that has dogged me for the past seventy miles or so. Who can tell; I may have been nodding through several of those landmark-free miles. I’m leaning against my Volkswagen, listening to the music I’ve got to kill time and kill the melancholy of traveling alone. Singing through a night that’s nearly day with the Cold Full Moon.
The land about me is limned in bluish neon.
Then it happens. THE song comes on. I’m singing because, you know, you can’t not sing to it. It’s one of those that either draws you along, or you end up saying, “I don’t know it.” Saying that always elicits deepest sympathy from me. I’m biased. To me it’s one of the one hundred perfect songs. It’s timeless, yet locked in time like time is amber or something intensely philosophical like that.
Anyway, I’m singing along. After a few bars another song slips in. And it’s the song, my song, and their song… under a big, blue moon.
The moon inspires song
Cool jazz – cold night – singing pack
Wolves howl a Moon dance
It’s Haibun Monday at dVerse Poets Pub. https://dversepoets.com/2017/05/01/haibun-monday-tramps-like-us-were-born-to-survive/#comment-122749