strum da da da clum da clumda strum trum
It’s the banjo.
It’s uneasy music fills the living room,
dining room, and into the kitchen where
I write. It’s loud. In your face loud.
Strumming and plucking swirl around my head
Over and over the twanging and thwanging
resemble a song, a song,
I cannot recognize.
Here it comes again.
Now it’s quiet.
G, A, some chords tentatively named.
Can I play down here with you?
It’s warmer and I won’t get so lonely.
bung, bung, bung, bung thwung, thwung
The finger picks look mostly like claws
It takes lots of practice to get used to playing with picks.
Strumming and plucking swirl around my head.
That’s a A, B, no a D, I hear from the next room.
I think I recognize an Avett Brother’s song now.
Hey! Sure enough. She’s got it.
I remember the singing long ago coming from her crib
We’d lay there and smile not wanting it to stop.
It’s quiet. She walks in humming.
Want to try them on your fingers mom?
I never want it to stop.