The smell of the summer night was grass and Delaware mud
and it rose from the ground like the Photuris that flicked
on and off in their tryst of life, death and deception.
The sound of dogs and fiddles and quick licks and steady
bass notes on six string steel string flat top acoustic guitars
sang and howled into the night to join the choir of crickets,
and the sight of a stream of stars was smeared above
farm houses, barns, and beaten up colonial mansions
with old rusted horse drawn carriages blending
into the grasses and thistles.
You could drive along the river, on either side
and pass across the divide on old steel bridges
with the surface of the water silvered by the moon
and the current swift enough to carry a cargo
of flotsam and secrets from somewhere upstream,
or stop at one of the few restaurants on the bank
sitting amongst the dank leaves dropped by deciduous trees
with the flow and tumble of the river tickling
and the subtle smell of musty old timbers telling
stories it seemed; telling stories.
Down the road a pub built of stones hoisted from a tributary
was home to toasts and tales from youths come from miles around
not to mention the odd codger here and there.
Further down-river on a Friday or Saturday night
New Hope’s sole saloon swayed with sounds from swing to folk to funk
and the drunken drive home was deserted but populated
with remembered beats and melodies and the wind whistled
like some temptress beyond all music
as the centerline became a happy medium
and it really didn’t matter because you were already there.
Back here in Upper Black Eddy life is sweet and the seat on the stoop
is a seat of song and the singing is on strings and the songs come from the heart.
There are different moments, in different places, where life comes together
and the beauty is too obvious to miss.