The Good Old Days Not Yet Come

by solaris2001

On long summer nights when the sun sank slowly behind aging barns and silos, they sat around the bonfire on the outskirts of the cornfields and drank cheap beer and sang the songs their parents used to sing along to on car radios and played their guitars and harmonicas and ukuleles that they would also pass down and beat the rhythms out on wooden boxes while their own children chased the dogs around the yard and sang the melodies in sweet unison and slept soundly in the tall grass as their mothers waved away the mosquitoes and stroked their backs.