The hollow sounds of fog return this time of year.
Loud echoes of potato chip crunching tires on frozen snow.
Disappearing into the city night as stars emerge from hiding
in a black-blanketed sky. We move toward the cusp of country,
body twitching with remembrances of anticipation.
That first dark nighttime sky away from city lights,
glimpsing the Milky Way Orchestra tuning
its sound to the touch of our senses. Oh yes, there is a tingle
in the air. The first tiny ting of triangle leading to such a
crescendo of silence so loud you cannot hear with common ear.
You hear it with your soul. You may see a frozen deer along
the tree line staring or a fox half-halting with its searching ears;
miniature gramophones scooping giant swathes of air for sound
and hearing none. It is a silent swift of fog between the moon and earth
that lends its leverage to the Universe. One verse for us all tonight.
How many remember ye ole gramophone players
Music from an earlier time, such melody makers
We had to place the needle
Tween the grooves to play The Beatles
What a joyous era for those movers and shakers
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