Cars spilled from the park and lined the streets. From under a pointed tent top, dinner called, and people answered in a patient, curving string. Loose lawn chair waves rose and fell from playground to fence line, and blankets were scattered, lumpy across the grass. There were cowboy hats and stiff blue Wranglers, summer skirts and sandaled feet, barefoot kids and grandma there, bouncing a softest bundle with fuzzy head and tiny feet.
A concert in the park, in our tiny Wyoming town. Right there, next to the rolling river that leaped and spat at the sand bags blocking it from coming, too. There, where swings were flung and the merry-go-round was spun, the guitar and the drums, the bass and violin, the percussion and the banjo twirled their music like the cowboys twirled their partners.
The sun set; the stars lit.
It's summertime here.
