Jerry, my friend you've done it again, even in your silence the familiar pressure comes to bear, demanding I pull words from the air with only this morning and part of the afternoon to compose an ode worthy of one so particular about every turn of phrase, demanding it hit home in a thousand ways before making it his own, and this I can't do alone. Now that the singer is gone, where shall I go for the song? Without your melody and taste to lend an attitude of grace a lyric is an orphan thing, a hive with neither honey's taste nor power to truly sting. What choice have I but to dare and call your muse who thought to rest out of the thin blue air, that out of the field of shared time, a line or two might chance to shine- As ever when we called, in hope if not in words, the muse descends. How should she desert us now? Scars of battle on her brow, bedraggled feathers on her wings, and yet she sings, she sings! May she bear thee to thy rest, the ancient bower of flowers beyond the solitude of days, the tyranny of hours- the wreath of shining laurel lie upon your shaggy head, bestowing power to play the lyre to legions of the dead. If some part of that music is heard in deepest dream, or on some breeze of Summer a snatch of golden theme, we'll know you live inside us with love that never parts our good old Jack O' Diamonds become the King of Hearts. I feel your silent laughter at sentiments so bold that dare to step across the line to tell what must be told, so I'll just say I love you which I never said before and let it go at that old friend, the rest you may ignore. Robert Hunter 8/11/95