This village, Placitas, is a natural amphitheater.  This quiet spring night it's earning the name fair and square.  Somewhere down below there's a party going on.  Not a good evening to sit on the porch having a quiet smoke, listening to the trains pass through the Rio Grande valley seven miles west and downhill. 

But I don't smoke indoors, so I went out.  (The cats abhor the odor of tobacco smoke... gives them the sneezes.)

I didn't recognize it, at first...... Then I did.  Ten generations of first cousins of Cotton-Eyed Joes have intermarried and produced a musical offspring, hydrocephalic, stalking the village below me.  Puzzling out the identity was touch and go until I heard the calls of "Bullsh*t!"

The breeze picked up a bit, which got the wind chimes dancing, sounding a lot better than that party.  But I expect even though it sounds to be still cranking up, it will break up before the pumpkin hour.  We don't like to get three people together in this town for more than a couple of hours or so without someone getting knifed, which tends to bring an end to the weddings, funerals and graduation parties at a reasonable hour.

Jack