Taj Mahal came out an eternal moon, rocking huge as his name. In rapture, almost seventy, he danced with his guitar like it was a beautiful woman turning to smoke. He is a powerful tree of a man. Witchy eyed, spitting mist, waterfalls sweated from his panama hat. We both wore bright pink shirts that cast flames of heart ore. We talked about horses when our eyes met. He sang medleys as if possessed by Nina Simone: trouble in mind, lord I’m blue, but I won’t be blue always, sun gonna shine on my backdoor someday. Swamp bass line held my throat, moonlight filled my lungs. How how how how Taj Mahal growled like Howlin Wolf, breathless cutting off words like Mississippi John Hurt.