Silence all around, but for the slow creak of frogs from the moonlit marsh, and the crackle and sudden pop from the dwindling campfire.  A late night wind twined soothing fingers through the dark pines, but hesitated and hovered above the group gathered below.

One looked to the other: toddler to elder, teen to careworn caregiver. Male gazed at female, and a third watched both. Black to white, Native to Asian, Trans to Cisgender. No one spoke the same language, no one shared a culture, and no one sang a song they all knew.

So instead, they shared a silence, and created a culture together. The songs would follow, and the night wind share counterpoint.

© Liz Husebye Hartmann (2016)

Midtown Writers: (4 mins on “They sang the old songs they all knew.”)