The folks and the festival (day two)

In the a.m. the car radio rings true. Sit on a trunk of mosquito spray and sweaters, Pharrell sings to me, woke up in the clothes I had on last night. Damn. I must have passed out.

As it was: a stranger sleeps soundly in a lawn chair round the ashes. Wake to stories of fistfuls of mushrooms and hits of acid. Check the bottle—still half full—admit I laid head down at an embarrassingly early hour.

Meet mother and order poutine breakfast, show her which acts are circled in the program. Long day ahead: Oka, Arrested Development, Greg MacPherson, Andrew Bird, and the Dodos.

Lay the blanket down and let the sun roast.