When it’s cold I put on a long, wool cape and take my drum to my deck where I dance, my head sandwiched by headphones blaring Celtic songs. I hope my neighbors hear me drumming and dancing, twirling the hem of my cape up to the crisp night and the moon's edge, out of focus in my crone's eye. I pant hard, and hear the breath expelling itself into the darkness, or onto the moonbeam. Something in me wants them to see and hear this spectacle, to shock them, to declare the "good news," a fresh, … [Read more...]
Recent Comments