DRUM

Sitting on the midnight porch, held by the intoxicating scent of night jasmine, the moon is full, and the stars shine brightly.

This full moon shines from right at the top of the sky, casting shadows only directly under the trees.

I begin tapping on my Celtic drum, which  more resembles a gypsy cymbals than anything else.

Softly, so as not to bother the neighbors (there also is a small part of me which still self-conscious about this monthly occurrence from my porch), the beat slowly aligns to a natural rhythm.

Lost in the beat of the drum, I open my half closed eyes and notice the clouds from the north slowly covering the sky and carrying with them a cold wintry chill.

The thick clouds look like the fleece on the back of a lamb, a most unusual diversion from the usual cumulus or stratus appearances.

I take a deep breath, breathing out slowly, contemplating the wonder of nature and of the drum beat.

At Stone Circle on Lake Champlain in Burlington, VT, the marking of the seasonal position of the sun.