“I mean, that sort of wood design is very in right now. How could they even afford that?”
“The wood with bark still on it is hip?”
“Well, those are ceders that fell in the hurricane. They just went and picked them up.”
“I wonder how much work it was to take it to the mill and back. Are there even mills around here?”
Someone points to a tattooed, bicycle capped, bearded man without a shirt on. “It’s his. He has a mill.”
“Think he wants to be our friend?”
The band is set up on stage. The warms and cools are pushed up, pink and pale blue streaks of light cross the grey stage. They shine off guitars and mandolins, dobros and fiddles, banjos, buckles, jewelery, and everything else. I hear them talking, in unmiced voices that sound quiet when they’re not. A light breeze blows in and it smells like rain. The fiddler plucks a string to tune. Someone leans into a mic and I look at the clock and start the timer.
The smooth road and shady trees break. The space is filled with sun, cut grass, and a rolling field. I hear people, see cars, and smell smoke and lunch and diesel.
“I’m home,” I say, just managing to hear the faintest of banjo picking.