Folk Fest Musing

This Bacchanalia has begun again
scantly clad satyrs and nymphs
dance and make love
the music of celebration is everywhere
wine and whiskey flow like water
drums pound out mystic rhythm
the whole night long.

In the morning the sun blasts through
an endless prairie sky is painted with wispy cirrus
hemmed in by scrubby trees in lush green leaf
Orpheus's song is carried on the wind
his lyre inspiring all these beautiful people
to just be together here
now under the powerful midsummer's sun.

The tan and toned, the buxom and blubbery
babies, ancients, all races and creeds
in a magic city that appears on the plain
like a mirage that shimmers and pulses
only to disappear after four short days
a ghost station whose signal is audible
just long enough to make you believe again.