“Drums!” she said in broken two-year-old English. “Drums on the hill!” She looked way up the hill, past the fountain and multiple of sets of stairs, to the pavilion far at the top. From the heights, the warm sound of conga drums wafted down to us and lightly made itself known. Curious. Why would there be drums on a Sunday night, here in the middle of Forest Park? Beyond the ever-changing lights of the fountain, two friends walked and took pictures in the dark. The summer air was now Continue Reading
