With crimson feathers whips away the mists,—
Dives through the filter of trellises
And gilds the silver on the blotched arbor-seats.
Now gold and purple scintillate
On trees that seem dancing
Then the moon
In a mad orange flare
Floods the grape-hung night.
Please check the SCHEDULE PAGE for our revised
program for 2018. As always, this schedule remains
flexible, and may be modified according to consensus.