June 27 2008, 11:31 PM Oh, Celeste

Let us walk out into the night; let us wander through the evening, under streetlights just waking up to the notion of twilight, the stops lights gaining strength against the indigo sky. Let us dodge the children using us carefully as screens in their game of hidden and sought. Let us go see bands.

So there, at the little festival, there was a pretty good time. I only managed to make it there for the very end of Ms. Hatfield's set, but she seems in quite fine form, and I am sorry I missed it. I got to spend a fair bit of the Wilson Twins' set in good conversation with Mr. Tinerant, but the sisters made good music, and that cover they do was lovely. Then, with the light draining out of the sky, the Old 97's came to play, carrying their weight in yowl, blister, thump and snare.

And there in the crowd, I found a story. Some ways in front of me, each seated: a young woman, a young man, his foot tapping too fast to be part of any music. The music has her, and she stands to dance, dances around him, next to him, dancing playfully into him to get him to feet, to join her, there on the lawn. Her efforts are for naught, but she dances on anyway. After some time, she sits back down, arm over the back of his chair, letting her fingers dance on the small of his back. He reaches his own hand behind, and I prepare not to notice a secret comfort of fingers, a small private tenderness. He knocks her hand away. I could have written her a note with a truth on it, then, left it with her before leaving, even as it would have been misunderstood.

I didn't do that, of course. That would have been rude, and the night had little use for rude. I moved up and in, into the knots of people dancing by the front of the stage. The pistons were firing up there, these four men together in music, the lyrics pouring right out of the top of Mr. Miller's head. We cheered and clapped against the great swallowing sky; they gave us more, we did it again.

I hope we did them well.