A festival in town: the downtown streets of Burlington spilling with people spilling with young people, a black man brown bagging it and wearing a bullet proof vest, surrounded by French speaking people. a French woman in cowboy hat stares openly at my half eaten dinner says, “It’s not good?” I am shocked she can see me. walking so high in search of music, watching the people, invisible, enclosed within my highness and all day travels, transported to this enchanted festival. at the brewery a group of six young guitarists play old songs in jam style, Crosby Stills and Nash. it started raining and they changed the lyrics to the rain, pack it up. It pours, I sit at the bar and order: a Rosa Lisa. Hefeweizen and rose water. It tastes like I’m drinking rose juice. This is my drink, college aged boys hovering around me, I am invisible, they talk crass and don’t notice me. there is a painting of angels above the rafters, there is music on the loud speakers that starts to make me feel sad and nostalgic, and though I have just taken a beer that an oblivious kid has ordered and left, I go to find my car. The streets wet, the party lasting all night, cars rushing by my car bed until I wake at predawn and drive it to a quieter, more residential neighborhood where I dream intensely and wake up new. It is pouring rain and sea-like Lake Champlain is a foamy blue.