Tuesday, February 23, 2016



I’ve had a tune running through my mind this morning, as I find myself humming the verse and not being able resist breaking right out into a low-voice chorus.  Of course, by then, I’ve lost track of the Longmire CD that’s accompanying my kitchen chores, and I have to seek out the little remote with soapy hands once again. 

Maybe it’s what they’d call  a "catchy tune," and maybe it’s the words and rhythm of the story that are providing sound-track to my day.   And memory, as well, for I’ve sat in little small-town bars to listen to the band, or to have an evening of dancing with friends and strangers, my face pressed to the crisp starchiness of a cowboy shirt, or being two-stepped around a crowded, swirling floor of boots and skirts and saved-for-special jeans, with the scents of Polo and Shalimar and Brut wafting us along like the music of a carousel. 

And there WERE the lonelies, the drink-hoverers, the eager-eyed too-flash women past a prime of their own choosing, most of them filling-the-hours til the drink or tired or sadness sent them home to a depthless sleep and  the blast of SundayMorning.

As I've said before, ain't no poets like them as write Country Songs.

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