Bucks County

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.