|July 12th, 1998|
By David P. Salamone
Resting when the day is over,
Eyes tightly closed,
The pictures will begin their dreamlike dance,
Born of scents gathered in early mornings,
And evenings past in memorable solitude,
While casting line to rising trout.
This is New York.
Perfume in its natural form,
Made not by man for pleasure of man,
But of the damp mist and fog of cool mornings,
Mixing to perfection with whiffs of grass, pine, oak, and maple,
Blended together with the pungent smell of the ground,
And carried on light breaths of air across hills and valleys,
From winding streams and rivers now familiar,
Now imprinted deeply within this soul forever.
This is New York. ~ David P. Salamone
River Bed by Dave Motes
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