In the dark cool autumn night outside the mudcat Cavern Tavern, a soft wind helps the early falling of red leaves from maples, tan from oak, find their way to the ground. The wind pauses, as though startled for a moment, but the leaves, now begunin their descent, make their way toward destiny in graceful, lilting swoops through the night's soft dark. Pale shadows and ripples of moonlight cascade across the receding hills into the sugared forests of the mountains behind the Tavern. The yellow light of the Tavern windows falls outward and splashes a brief distance across the parking lot before surrenderign to a soft, cool autumnal darkness, laced with moonbeams.

The chatter inside the tavern, the flames from the jello-pit, the clink of virtual glasses, are a bundle of cheery sounds. Heat rises into the mnight in waves from the busy kitchen and bar. You can see it wqavering into the night air from outside like waves from hot asphalt in summer. But the night is cool and absorbs them.

In a sudden gust of wind,the chatter of the Tavern in its many dimensiuons seems for a moment to suspend, all voices reaching a pause point simultaneously in the strange synchronicity of large groups in small places. And in the pause an ancient sound comes back through the night, ewafts in through the windows, down the chimbleys, across the tavern floor, through the ponderous forms suspended in the jello pit. It is a deepthroated rumble, a watery sound like a large boat in still summer waters, a low-pitched bass bubbling out the rhtyhms ofunlimited and unused power. The sound grows from a faint whisper over the country hills, and approaches veering andf snaking along the linesof the small two-lane blacktop road that runs in front of the Tavern,bound from Anywhere to All Points. As the rumble, soft and liquid, grows louder, those who have spent ime here before look at each other in recognition.

It is the sweet liquid basso profundo of a 1939 Indian, drawing closer and closer. As it pummels the doors and windows of the Tavern a green glow seems to stream back in through the windowpanes, overriding thre Tavern's firelight and candleglow with an eerie celestial vibration of green light. It dances momentarily across the walls and floors of the busy Tavern, a verdant sparkle laced with golden flecks, a hum of its own, and it stretches and fades as the sweet deep murmur of the giant Indian motorcylce rolls by and away into the autumn evening, bound for destinations unannounced but tinged surely with its own precise rhythm of divinity...