Solas

it's the toe tapping music. head nodding, clapping, heart beating to the rhythm of the song. her fingers dance across the strings of her violin, his fly across the keys of the accordion. there is a guitar too, a banjo  a tambourine that rattles its clear voice along with the song.

this is a proper reel, she shouts every so often, someone beats at the floor with a boot, keeping the band in time. their joy fills the hall to the brim, overflowing out into the dark night, setting the stars on edge. in the audience, some cannot contain their grins, others sit perfectly still, unwilling to move and risk changing a single aspect of the concert.
the band quickens, laughing at their daring, tossing their heads. they are the race horses in the moments before a race, overcome with expectation. a two beat pause of perfect silence. then the fiddler begins.

her fingers fly, her bow conducting them, hips swaying back and forth, feet stomping, she casts out the mesmerizing notes to the audience. they are held within her spell.

one by one, they are all back in again. the banjo, guitar, accordion, tambourine, filling the spaces within the song with ease, sliding into notes they have created, shouting out their story for the world to hear. in this, the final leg of the reel, no eye moves from the bright players of the stage. each one is smiling, floating on the tune, quickening to the last.

the man on the accordion draws out a final note, pulling the pleats of noise from the depths of the reel. all others hold to the note dearly, slowing to take a breath for the first time since the song began. the audience exhales as one with the band. laughing, shouting, clapping, as the band bows and begins another tune.