The Dance of the Flower Children

We reclined on a carpet of mountain greenery. The smell of cut hay drifted upwards from a distant river valley. The twilight of June stretched its intoxicating hues across time. I scoured the alpine grasses for radiant wildflowers, braiding them into my daughters impatient locks of tender hair. A band set up on an ancient dance floor, while cooks turned meat on blackened, open air barbeques. The crowd imbibed homemade beer from plastic cups, until the vibrations of the musician’s guitars pierced the light air. Rock, country, pop, jazz, all melted into the same sky. The trendy city people tried to look cool, while they shared space with cowboy hats and belt buckles. And the cowboys touched elbows with the mountain flower children. These simple souls were barefoot, wore homemade clothes, And adorned themselves with stolen flowers, tucked behind unwashed ears. The altitude inspired my feet to replicate the rhythms that eve. I tossed my daughter into the sweet firmament. I twirled my son in majestic circles. I two stepped with my toddler. And I swept my wife off her feet once again. I wish you had been there that night., laughing in the gentle grass, dancing without care, transforming your thoughts from shrill discord, to the mountain’s peaceful harmonies.