Archive for August, 2012

I always think to myself how much I would like to make bluegrass music, and then I realize that what I actually want… is to be bluegrass music.

I want to be the strings thrumming into the warm summer stars. I want to be the golden grasses and the dust, home to grasshoppers and trapped melodies. I want to be the worn, finger-stroked wood of mandolin or guitar on Southern porch when the blossoms close against the night and fireflies dance.

The moonshine in a jar on the windowsill. The callouses on strong brown fingers that coax banjo twang. The thin spidery cracks in over-loved, leather, field-hand boots. The swirling dust devils down the back county roads, and the shatter cracks in Chevy passenger mirror. The golden honeybees on the sun-faded daisies around peeling-paint bee boxes.

I want to be summer in all its fullness, all sun and warm and dust; all its fiddle scraping and bucking hay bales. All the huckleberry high country and honeysuckle.

I want to be every dust mote in the sun gold, every acoustic note plucked swiftly, and every harmony. Every dull feather on every crow on every lonely power line.

More than all the world, I want to be bluegrass.

I want to be summer.



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