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I stood hidden in the thick lodgepole playing my Harmonica: Rosin the Beau,
Amazing Grace, Shenandoah, after a beer and a long hard day of walking on my Yellowstone vacation.
I could see my
dogs looking through the trees, trying to spot me, wagging their
tails. I am convinced they are used to my playing and like it just as
the foxes on my green belt do.
In the lodgepole pine my 11 year old located me by the sound. She said that Mom wants me to stop, because I might be disturbing some people in the campground.
Yes, it is better to play in solitude, with my dogs. I have a silly romantic ideal that my playing is more than it is - that the fox actually likes it, as evidenced by him lying down and placing his head on his stretched out paws while I am playing. Because my dog riding in a truck in front of me and, upon hearing my harmonica, tries to jump out the window to find me. I have the foolish notion that there is some meaning to my notes of Amazing Grace floating out over the Canyon of the Yellowstone from the lonely clifftop I climbed up to. Yes, I am a silly romanticist, that I imagine there is something reverent about the sound of my harmonica traveling into the canyon and mixing with the sound of the falls.
. . . amazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .
. . . that saved a wretch, like me . . .
