Final Breaths of Summer

The warm salty air brushed against our cheeks as we stood on the edge of the wharf and lifted our fiddles. I strained to see in the starlit night if my hand was in the right position, as my hand does not yet carry this wisdom in itself. A sweet melody began to pour from Theresa's fiddle, a slow gentle "My Darling Asleep," throwing itself in with the lapping waves and the faint sound of disco music coming from a bar across the bay. By the second phrase I had joined her, letting the lilt of the slow jig carry me out of my head, through my hands, through my bow, to the ocean, the heavens.

As we held the final note, I noticed a dark movement on the sand below us, which rises up between the bay and the wharf at low tide. We peered over and before us was the elegant outline of a great blue heron. A few feet behind was a baby heron. The herons stood peacefully before us and listened to a serenade of "Midnight on the Water," "Tennessee Waltz," "Scollay," and "Ashokan Farewell." Some of these were songs Theresa had just taught me since we became friends at Rustic Roots music camp. Finally we bid farewell to the herons and made our way down the wharf's path back to my home, where the rest of the dinner party remained ensconced in philosophical discussion, surrounded by candles and wine. This is how life should be.