Ireland sings to me most nights and some days. We spent a month there in 2005. I’ve been trying to go back (and if possible, stay) ever since. Yes, I’m one more of those people who want to be Irish. Seems everyone with a certain bent is inexorably drawn there.
Nothing moved between the sagebrush and ocotillo below him. Now and then a ripple of wind scattered across the brush but any animal venturing out in the heat of the day was too small at this distance for even his sharp eyes.
The sand was hot under his belly as he lay under a creosote bush at the edge of the mesa. Unarmed, because it was not his task to attack or defend, only to watch and report. Three small, smooth stones in his mouth kept his tongue moist with saliva. Should he have to signal his brothers farther north on the trail, his lips and tongue would have to be ready. A dry tongue made ineffective sounds.
Silently watching through the window as you play
Intent that every single note says exactly what you have to say
Will it disquiet you to know I hear your song?
I think about how lovely it would feel if you would only let me play along
I love you so
So here I go
I boldly strum the strings to let you know I’m there
You gently change your tune to let me know you care
I love you so
So here we go
I’d been noodling on my tenor guitar a month ago, and woke up last night realizing that this was a banjo song. Expanded and extended and made good use of the pouring rain on the lake to add color.