It is a picturesque town.
Gone back a hundred years or more. A post-carded vision where the cobbled walk circles the park square where maples bend and huddle round children that have long gone away. Twas a colony of like-minded folk in its day. Now surrounded by farm fields that house towering armed sentinels catching the breeze in rotation. This was our destination as we strolled onto the grassy green square. All of the pickers were there, and a fiddler to boot. In the gazebo, behind the haystacks, sat a shadowy suit of leering looks propped between guitar strings and black leather cases. From a distance, we mistook his fatigue for voyeurism. Shame on the strangers in town. That shadow had forgotten more about pickin and pluckin than we could ever hope to know. And when he did finally lay his gnarled fingers on his ole friend, that banjo filled our souls with tunes long forgotten. In that picturesque town where the maples bend down to greet such sweet music.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |