Sung on the radio (gzaibun)

Sung on the radio

On the first of December, the Sapphires peeked dreamlike through fog, lay quiet as clouds broke free from the weakened autumn sunshine. Upon moonrise, Jupiter and Venus mingled with the old cold crescent in the southwestern sky, glistening over the mountain passes that listened.

What of that Big Blue Ball, they mused.

Earth, a wasteland of dampness, a myth enveloped in white wisps of vapor, did not answer. Why, they pondered, this increase in chatter after millennia of silence? And all-of-a-sudden, what are those twinkles of light that banish the night. Why are those pitiful projectiles aimed at us, mere frostbites we ignore. What more can possibly be taking place down there beyond the eternal struggle of indigo and cream? What seems to be the matter? By all the stars of night we gather and whisper... what? why?

Above the Sapphires the three old friends conspire while far beyond their hearing cowboys rock the cradle and sing their lullabies. And in the empty pastures of Montana, the cattle softly low.


Sweet Baby James,
sung on the radio;
the moon listens in.


© 2008 Kåre Enga [165.364GZ] 2008-12-01