The Middle Pool by Phil Cummings

The Middle Pool

The sun had just disappeared behind the horizon, a magic time in the desert. One of the people, Flynt, was very skillfully playing the guitar; an endless stark series of chords, notes and riffs flowing into a formless river of sound, sometimes incredibly soft, sometimes harsh or furious, laughing and sending a string of notes into the silence. A phalanx of jets screamed low through the sky in the dusk shaking the ground and eradicating the silence in a tidal wave of igneous sound. The sky filled with nighthawks and bats as the cloud of nocturnal moths rose from their daily beauty sleep. I lit a joint and passed it around.