On my way out, I walk the sand track to the west and occasionally stop to pick up the odd piece of agate that finds me there, and I think. This morning I'd chosen to listen to a short narration by Steve Earle, "The Moment In 1965 When Rock and Roll Becomes Art"... and when Townes Van Zandt and Guy Clarke were mentioned, I remembered my friend, Jeff.
As a boy, Jeff was taught to play the guitar by Townes and Guy (as he called them) and it was Clarke who made him his first guitar... when Steve Earle was perhaps, five or six years old.
Jeff was one of the most thoughtful and kind men I've ever known or had the privilege of traveling and fishing with, and as I thought of him a wave of loss washed over me and my eyes teared. When I wiped away the grief and my eyes refocused, I noticed that a large yellow butterfly had landed on the damp sand at my feet.
As I resumed my walk, the swallowtail kept pace with me, flittering back and forth between the walls of the forest on either side of the track, sometimes falling behind, other times flying ahead, but always looping back to rejoin me. We traveled together like this for a mile or so before he left... and I thanked Jeff for the comfort.
"Make it matter, fuckos." jhnnythndr
" Herre jävlar vilka fiskar!!" P-A
"I'm no saint though, nor a judge. Rock that shit good and hard, and on your way out, wipe your dick on the curtains." - Kyner