A wooden stage stands near a river. Willows blow in the breeze. Rifle shots in the distance. Smells of meat and woodsmoke drift through. Vultures hover overhead. Pears drop to the grass. A dog named Beaver the color of beaver plays ball in the field. An old drunk man pushes a vinyl couch with his four-wheeler. He nearly runs over an old woman. Later, he’ll start a bonfire with a blowtorch and damn near blow himself up.
Women run barbecued corn on the cob to festival-goers. A jug of hooch gets passed around. A Leatherman serves as roach clip. Double dates cornhole each other, the game that is. A black Buick Regal, mint condition, pimped out, pebbled top, rumbles by. A musician drains malt liquor after a set.
An 80-year-old man with a white ponytail on stage alone, shredding with a black electric guitar. Heavy. Rockocity. RAWK.
Salmon shudder in deep green pools. Beavers disdain the racket. They hate rock. They prefer bebop jazz while rolling lily pads like joints.
A llama bounds through! The man starts in with “Purple Rain.” A river otter crawls up the bank and watches the performance from the wings.
Full moon tonight. And it’s not even dark yet.