I got up one morning feeling out of sorts. As I lay in bed, thinking of what I had to do that day, I wished I could go back to sleep.
A few moments earlier I had been running through the mystical, Western Pennsylvania woods of my youth, high above the Ohio River. I was in my Davy Crocket coonskin hat, chasing my younger brothers without a care in the world, and had experienced a feeling of sweetness that I thought I’d never feel again. 
Alas, it was only a dream, and as I fondly recalled it, my eyes welled with tears. It was a mixture of nostalgia, joy and an overwhelming feeling of melancholy.
Later, the day’s travails melted away, and I returned home. Jayebird kissed me, and announced that my new CD had arrived in the mail. I had forgotten that I’d ordered the new Norah Jones album. I was about to cut Jaye’s hair, so I popped the disc in the player.
Suddenly, the air was saturated with this young woman’s warm, angelic voice, whispering like a soft breeze blowing through the willows. Her airy piano-playing blended perfectly with the upright bass, acoustic guitars, and brushes. The lyrics were simple, but sexy and sweet, and the music was dreamy.
The CD continued enchanting me while I finished my wife’s hair. Norah purred a sultry rendition of Hank William’s “Cold, Cold Heart” as she warmed my woeful heart. Soon, the both of us had fallen into her magical spell. We enjoyed a passionate, romantic interlude throughout the rest of the CD — and the afternoon. What had started out being a miserable day had turned into peaceful euphoria. Jayebird’s green eyes and the mellifluous music had given me the same melancholy joy that my dream had.
The last strains of Norah’s beautiful songs dissipated far beyond Chimney Rock and the setting sun. Her final lyrics echoed in my head:
Feeling tired, by the fire, the long day is over.
The wind is gone, asleep at dawn, the embers burn on.
With no reprise, the sun will rise; The long day is over.