It's that time of year and I'm headin' up north this weekend to hear it. The lakes will be freezing over. Their skin stretching and cracking. After sunset when the temps are dropping they begin to sing. Could be the song of angels, both saved and fallen. That's a bit heavy, approaching stupid even. But I wrote it and ain't turnin' back.
The neatest part is heading outdoors to take a leak in the dark. Urination serenade. Poingin' and boingin' in the background. Throw in some northern lights and it's enough to make an aging man pray for a small bladder.
I sometimes go back and read what I've written, months or years later. It's now March 10, 2013. I browsed the titles and didn't recall what this one could possibly be about. Sounds like a children's story by Wanda Gag (with an umlaut above the last a). Hard to believe I wrote these few words. Sounds just like me, maybe even better. Don't know where the words come from but I doubt it's me making them up. When it all lines up right who, or whatever it is, has been paying enough attention and the story sounds just like the key stabber is telling it. Don't know if that makes much sense but not a whole lot in life does so I guess it's okay.
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