:::A young man, barely a lad, walks up the steps to the stage. Being one of Skye's busboys, he wasn't dressed for the occasion, but had removed his messy apron:::
:::behind the bar, Lettie and Merry exchange glances, their mouths drop open, the giggle quietly and then shrug:::
My name be Shawn, an' I am only beginning to write. But Skye is that encouraging to anyone of creative bent. Although I'm pretty sure even Skye wasn't thinkin' I'd be reading tonight. :::gulps, looks around for Skye and doesn't see her:::
This be a short poem and only the one. On Old Earth, eons ago, as Skye tells it, young writers used to be urged to write what they knew. I call it Muddied Boots.
I cast me eyes
about the room,
an' filled w' folk it be.
An' though their boots
be muddied from the fightin' gloom,
starshine in their eyes, there be.
:::hearty clapping, and a few "ways to go,":::
:::Shawn blushes and nearly trips in his haste to get off the stage:::
