A lonely and standoffish, lanky fellow with long tangled brown hair sporting occasional glimmers of gray, materializes among the jacaranda, carrying an old, scarred Dreadnought. He watches, shaking his head with wry amusement, as the sardonic Canuck in the woebegone, outmoded Identity, tries to put some moves on a fine, high-cheekboned, lovely lass with fire in her eyes. It is Peg; she listens to his line, gives him the sunniest smile in all creation, hugs him once and proceeds to sing to him in a lilting, piercing, heart-rending alto, a song of truth and long-lost illusion, of sunrises a world away and moonlight in ancient hills, of horseback rides in dark, fog-lain paths by a long-forgotten sea, of love on moonlit sands and hope restored with the touch of a gentleman's hand -- all these things were in her sweet song.

The surly, barbarian minded man was struck dumb -- or perhaps it was his natal condition -- but in any case he watched with his jaw so low-slung that his half-burned cigarette fell on the ground. And then, as though seized himself by some ancient moor-born mist, the sallow-faced grease-stained hoser from Onario melted into a gauzy shimmer, and disappeared as the last beautiful note of song drew to a close.

Little Hawk -- for it is he who watches this unfolding with amaze -- fingers his old guitar thoughtfully for a few minutes, lost in thought, and then, with renewed energy and purpose, swings the mighty Martin to the ready and unleashes a few baritone arpeggios.

"Come you people, around me, wherever you rooooooooam....." he sings. His words break through the dappling sunlight under the eucalyptus, and filter through the jacaranda, and spread for hundreds of yards to the ears of a hundred smiling and entranced folks...and for a few lines, there are not one but a hundred voices taking up the song...

"For the times, they ARE ac-chaaaaaaaangin..."

And the singer, finding himself the sung-to and the song in one, smiles in renewal.