Nightbird at Blood Moon

Nightbird at Blood Moon

Last night, Kit and I went to the Full Moon Drumming, which was particularly wonderful during this, the Blood Moon. There was a big turnout. Instruments of all kinds were spread out on the ground for any newbies (like us) to borrow—fully engaged participation is the unspoken expectation. Interspersed were various art supplies that had apparently been used to put up promotional posters about the event, at least that’s what we figured the markers, scissors, etc., were beside the tambourines and maracas. Yet there was a tin can, fly swatter, and a knife sharpener, so who could be sure?

I’m not a musician but I can keep a beat, at least I thought I could. Then the tattooed guys with pony tails started beating rhythms out of the congas, snares, steel pans and African drums that were powerful and primal. Everything I tried to sync to that skewed highchair-baby-with-spoon. As soon as the first session winded down, I switched to cow bell and spent the next session trying to keep Will Farrell/SNL images out of my mind.

Maybe the fourth or fifth “drum conversation” in, I was finally getting the hang of it. I had settled at last on the triangle because…well, I just didn’t think you could mess up on the triangle. It always sounds nice. After a while, Kit gave me a look that inferred otherwise.

“Play something different,” she hissed.
“This is the only song I know on the triangle,” I replied.
“No, I mean a different instrument…anything…maybe that skein of yarn.”

She looked around desperately then handed me a glitter-glue stick, but I just tuned her out.

this evening in which she dips her hands up to her elbows

this evening in which she dips her hands up to her elbows

The title I didn’t use for this (for reasons that should be obvious) was “drive by shooting”
although it would have been accurate since I just rolled down the window
and started snapping as I drove north at sunset.


This title actually comes from Ilya Kaminsky’s beautiful poem Aunt Rose.
It’s far lovelier and apropos of all those colors.


“the wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse’s ears”

Back at the horse farm this week…picking up the conversation with two-legged and four-legged alike.


The horses quiver…ventriloquists…throwing their voices over the grass and across the sky.
I listen with my skin and nostrils and eyes.


The man said “no trainer ever commits suicide with an unraced two-year-old in his barn.”