I liked Kenneth.
Kenneth played his horn. He played in potato pastures: a silver sun skimming the sky, a nervous nighttime sneaking back to evening parties after summer leaves.
Kenneth coaxed it back. It was just like making a call. That’s what horns do. They say hello or they say goodbye. They say welcome aboard or see ya later. No small talk with horns.
Don’t forget this. Brass has a way. You best beware. No need to get shaky about it, just go in with your eyes wide open.
Makes it easier when you stand on irrigated ground and think, goddamnit I don’t think I’m gonna miss this place. When you think, this is the last potato burn I’m gonna have to heal.