It's simply that I can't stay up late.
At nine p.m. I start to fade,
Even if it's summer and the sky still lit with gold.
By the time musicians gather, I am drifting into dreams.
I wake up at five each morning
And even though in winter I relish snuggling under my warm quilt
By six I am up and dressed,
walking to the pond
To watch steam rising from the water,
Listen to the trills of my resident phoebe,
The bass fugues of frogs.
Why can't I play music like that?
Michael Wright lives in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada.
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