i am on highway three east
on the interior plateau of the similkameen valley
standing in my pj’s locked out of my room in the countryside inn at five am

o where is the sun?

my dyke country band ‘bushy park’ play the 12th annual princeton traditional music festival

last night on jon & rika’s big ol’ porch
geraniums waft, remind me of their stink lining the basement window ledges at mom & dad’s
where i plunked on the keys of the upright grand

folkies with tummies stuffed with chilli
their voices rise in unison
rhythm of feet pound on the porch

“rain in my beer & rain in my grub
hey rain, rain comin’ down
on the cane, on the roofs of the town”

fiddles, bouzoukis, & bodhrans below
& i heard “i heard, i heard the old man say
john kanaka kanaka tura yay”

i think back on the isle of Barra, where grammo wove & rocked & sang
like soph and i yesterday harmonizing to ‘bye bye love’ in the car
as we pulled into hope

next day we plunked our bottoms into the tulameen river
in our sunhats
wind in the willows
silver backs of leaves quiver
sip tea

& chat about this little town that welcomed the dykes who put gender twists on country tunes, the little town that called out for more