Drum Circle

On Saturday
I will load my congas and djembe
into the old, government-green pickup truck
and drive two hours north.

The farm runs wild with trees and people
caught between growing and dying;
brambles, weeds, and broken stuff hang in the rhythm;
secrets that smell like tractor grease
drift
from the rusted-out buildings.

I do not watch their hands
or mine;
I enter the rhythm through their eyes:
nameless friends
coaxing their souls out of the song of the drum,
the air, bent
with hands and sweat.