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A celebration at the end of a long summer.
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In the fall, knowing what the winter can bring.
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The house is drafty, the floors are crooked, the paint is peeling and in the rain, the grounds are a quagmire--but I love the place and the people.
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A brother.
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Satisfaction in your accomplishments and in acheiving some of your goals.
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An interpretation of what the music of Bola Sete and Baden Powell means to me.
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I'm not saying.
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A run on the sidewalk and in the grass and then on a dirt path, with the morning light filtered through a green canopy.
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The gawky stage that kids and dogs hit.
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I wrote the music, you supply the show.
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If only that shallow prehistoric sea had stayed put.
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Something that we would all like to leave knowing.
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A more subtle beauty than the high peaks, deep canyons and forests.
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The clan, not the restaurant.
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What pieces with melodies, then improvisations tend to be -- also a way to say goodbye.
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