the voyage of the falcon fish

an (abridged) ichthyologist's guide to Falcon Ridge:

the steepness of the hill did not defeat me.
the master horse was arrogant, & his sweet companion fled to another fence. the burros however were most benevolent & sincere, & suddenly i understood their recurrence in holy parables.

children in tie-dye & varying states of undress whirled & yelled, catapulted up & down hills with the joy of discovery: so many ways to make noise. there is a kind of freedom in hippie children that glows in the dark, a kind of exploration, a way for mothers & fathers & old cousins to reflect ideals untarnished by anything but green grass & blue sky. we can all dance like 6-year-olds on the hill.

i heard little of the music--more that it washed over me, a tide rising & ebbing back into the crowded valley with all its color, leaving tidepools of surpassing clarity between tents, unique little microcosms of stranded musicians.

i climbed to Snaggle Rock in the dark & they graciously shared their dandelion wine. sparklers & cell phones set the valley to shining like the sky.

i wonder what the local Long Hill Farm population believes about the yearly recurrence of so many bare bellies & bracelets & boys in skirts. i wonder how they feel about the drums.

i walked the state line, crossed over to Massachussetts where the totem of Bish Bash stood guard over his waterfalls. i rinsed my feet in clear water.