Duskily Bry Webb walked down towards the causeway. He held a child in his arms. He wore a frayed straw hat and navigated the crowd holding his child close to his chest.
People on bikes, on foot, pushing strollers, pulling wagons, passed by, most making their way towards the main stage area which flared out behind him or was it Jason Collett horizontal of shoulder slight crook to his frame a rust red shirt blousing around him in the slight breeze.
The stage, shielded by tall scantily leaved trees, slowly coming into view as if rising above the heads of those climbing casually the slight rise of the island that housed Hillside.
A steady hum of voices traded places in the air with the thud and bap of a drum circle already in full celebratory form. From behind the line of pine and cedar on the mainland the first thin curtains of campfire smoke swirled up dancing to the rhythmic beats echoing out over the lake filling swelling fading into the blue, beyond.
A roadway curved down from the campgrounds between open grassy meadows spotted sporadically with pin cushion thistle heads to meet the causeway at a grey gravel parking lot.
A broken yellow line of school buses eased down the roadway, stopped on the grey gravel and spilled more people dustily into the purposeful steady stream of people winding their way across the causeway, down almost level with the lake waters and then up the slight rise to the island that housed Hillside passing Bry Webb holding a child close to his chest, shading the boy with the tilted frayed brim of his straw hat.
The curve of his hat. The curve of the causeway. The curve of this circus, calling to mind a parade a cavalcade medieval of banners and ribbons great crowds cheering the triumphant tramp, clamouring at the large bucket feet of seven elephants painted in the colours of the rainbow reeling ungainly their riders straddling their broad backs. Pachyderms and backpackers cyclists one wheel two wheel three wheelers the tring a ling warnings the wave as stout footed walkers step aside to allow fez wearing clowns in wind powered golf carts to skirt by skirts blousing around them.
Best get the tent up. This scene I see a glass covered demi-globe, if I could scoop it up and shake it the sky would snow crepe paper stars like confetti.
Each star a someone.
Each someone somebody's everyone.
by Will McGuirk