A Poem for My Son

Travelers
for Nate

When my son discovered the mandolin
it was as if he'd found his true timbre,
the vibrato of his very bones.
Soon the bright notes came in deft flurries.
He'd gaze at the ceiling -- all ears --
listening for what his fingers made
the strings accomplish, until the air
remembered the rhythms of Gypsies,
firelight and starlight, the odor
of horses. Days later,
any passing Traveler could tell
there'd been a fire there,
and see by the trampled dust
that it was dancing ground.