The moon’s gaunt and narrow.
…………..They say our corridor through life’s
…………..measured by the moon.
…………..Slim as a tunnel, I tuck my legs under my knees.

Pat scratches licks on the rosewood,
…………..strumming them in fragments of silk and nylon.
…………..Three-Part Rasguedo, Golpe,
…………..Rumbagitana.
…………..He plays.

 Fire-starting calluses, fireboard,
…………..spun Mullein, none of these items
…………..are amazed by their use.  In the circle dance,
…………..my back foot scratches the dust. 

Farruca, the wild form, mournful Soleares,
…………..the tragic Segurias.
…………..He adjusts his segilla,
…………..demonstrates Tarrantas y Tarrantino,
…………..its dramatic turns and contemplative open rhythm.

 Rising into the horizon.
…………..I hear the shuffle of leaves in the Sequoia,
…………..the rattle of rain upon the green roof.
…………..Words are shocked. 

He breaks into fast, repetitive Garrotin,
…………..tells me he’s afraid
…………..his fingers can’t grasp the random accents
…………..of Tientos;  he says it has no rhythmic structure,
…………..no time.

 When I answer ancient questions
…………..with bowed Yew,
…………..and they struggle to be heard over my awe
…………..for old wisdom.

 Flamenco scatters off the big pond,
…………..past the cook fire, across the dark
…………..field, its sound
…………..like falling leaves                                on fluttering wings
…………..mayflies gather to the lamplight.

– Oreste Belletto