The Weiti sparkles in a new morning.
Cicadas have finally shown up.
Down along the hill little birds alight from the grasses.
From here they look like a swarm of graceful flies,
catching actual flies according to a routine choreographed by
who knows.
Back here, on the patio kitchen of the Mitchell bach
we squeeze the Auld Lang Syne from our eyes and pick
gingerly at spatchcocked offerings, hot tomatoes,
and coffee.
Coffee is every year
and so are the musical interludes
and the bonfire
surrounded by new pyromaniacs,
children drunk on the abundant evening hours
and the scant glances their way.
Nobody minds
the wine and whiskey have been flowing
and so are the voices
an enthusiastic dancer
and jostling guitars
“do you know this one?”
from time to time the sophisticated fuzzy tone of a saxophone nudges its way in
gently leading the rest to excellence
Nobody has their eye on a ball
on a city building
or even a second hand
12:01, we missed it!
nope, it missed us.
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