Speaking to Yourself

Summer evenings, most of the townsfolk made their way down to river where the air was cooler. They’d watch the fireflies, and gossip, and when someone began to play the guitar, the whole of them would sing. Hymns, and spirituals mostly.

One such night, a stranger paddling down the river, heard them and pointed his bow towards the sound and their lantern lights. He came ashore, palms calloused and back bent, but smiling.

“My spirit flagged considerable,” he said. “Before I heard your beautiful song.”

Instead of answering, they turned and walked away, one by one, beckoning him to follow.


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