The air is sharp with winter anticipation
Comets with tails blazing: stage lights
Hit upon the crowd, wondrous

His hair is Spanish moss that
Hangs heavy from the oaks,
festooned in beads and baubles

He raises his red lips to the flute
The crowd erupts in joy for a song
That has not caressed air in decades

The city buzzes with the news,
And falls in love with the sound
Of guitar strings in crisp air

Over and over again