The Littlest Birds Visit

It is decadant. A fire. A cello. A banjo. A fiddle. A few guitars. A mandolin. A Thursday night. Sweet songs. Humming melodies. Tap shoes on plywood. Hum. Tap. Hum. Tap. Slide. Shift. “Oh My Darlin. My heart breaks as you take your long journey.”

It is music. It is food. It is strangers and songs and somehow – unity.


A team effort to play William good night songs!
 People that don’t know each other. They know us and that seems to be enough and I let it be enough. The children roast marshmallows to order and build with Legos in the middle of it all. They ask for bed time and two cellos, a fiddle, a banjo, and a guitar put sweet William to bed. He sleeps. Full. Full of soup and soul.

People bring wine and beers with fun bottle caps and the open and close and then coffee comes out and the fire is perfectly warm enough for shorts and t-shirts on a Florida November night. Some go. Others come. But the music is brilliant and I wonder how we are are so blessed.

 The moon slides over the roof top. We stop and stare and return to taping and strumming and singing and drinking.

The day has been drowned. IT was a lot of clean up and sweeping and cooking, and replacing, and fixing toilet seats.

So there will be dishes in the morning, but all three children are sleeping and voices lift up towards the stars and the fire. Just the right amount of light and warmth and silence to back up the sounds of cello, banjo, fiddle, guitar, and mandoline.


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