Grass. Kids using it correctly. Wind taking the vocal I was proud of. A boy in the middle of what would be a front row if we were important enough to have one is playing to a girl who is on her phone. I am briefly, stupidly jealous of how easy that wanting is. Then I remember I am hired for an afternoon that barely has a name. We are not a host. We are weather with a kick drum. The marshal looks at his watch as if time were the only civic religion. I do not look for Jono. Looking would be a chorus. When we unplug, a child is still dancing off the beat. That child is the only review I believe.
