festival

There's an explosion of hippies in our tiny town; festival-followers, musicians, crew and the like
We Barkerville workers are seasonal, but tolerated, the hippies, less so.
They swim naked in the river/smoke grass in public/pee on our lawns/leave garbage everywhere/make a noise

All this is true, but they are fun to watch, in their swirling skirts and outrageous hair-
and that's just the men-
I stare at this influx of people
My goodness she's beautiful, look at that kid, wow- a gorgeous man (so many gorgeous men!)
a strange reminder that this year, were I the type, I could make eyes at someone, follow them back to their tent
intoxicating thought, even if I am too chicken to try

I love to watch the festival kids
dancing to the bands with no self-consciousness at all
dirty feet and ragged hair
up past their bedtime
until they melt down and are carried away to sleep

And the music-
folk/punk/dance/lounge/acoustic/plugged-in
accordions fiddles guitars singers stand-up bass
We know we shouldn't, with our 8-show long weekend, but we dance
and stay up too late, and shout over the music 'til we are hoarse
Taking it all in, this explosion of noise and people and events

He says bring your clarinet. If I see you, I'll call you up to the stage and you can sit in
And so I will take it out of the theatre for the first time in months
packed in its case
race to the gig after our last show and hope to be seen
So that I can be a tiny part of this festival scene