Sorry for breaking from the tone of this thread, but the following poem has been begging me to post it. Consider it a get well wish to Spaw. I think the writer, James Still, had someone like him in mind when he wrote "Dulcimer":

The dulcimer sings from fretted maple throat
Of the doe's swift poise, the fox's fleeting step
And music of hounds upon the outward slope
Stirring the night, drumming the ridge-strewn way, The anvil's strength...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~and the silence after That aches and cries unhushed into the day.

From the dulcimer's breast sound hunting horns
Strong as clenched hands upon the edge of death,
The creak of saddle-bags, of oxen yoke and thongs,
Wild turkey's treble, dark sudden flight of crows,
Of unshod hoofs...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~and the stillness after,
Bitter as salt drenching the tongue of pain:

And of the lambs crying, breath of the lark,
Long drinks from piggins hard against the lips;
And with hoarse singing, raw as hickory shagbark,
The foal's anxiety is woven with the straining wedge
And the wasp's anger...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~and the quiet after
For the carver of maple on a keen blade's edge

Of