3758. LAND OF THE MANHATTOES

LAND OF THE MANNHATTOES

And then time seems stopped when you cry like that;

I see you bent and saddened over the outdoor stoop.

Beyond your head, the gulls are swooping and some

evening's river traffic plugs along its way : a vast white

pleasure craft, some finance rich-man trolling down the

East River past Corlears Hook, wining and dining his

dinner on board. The sound, though soft, reminds me

yet of nothing so much as trouble. Yellow taxis streetside

bleating, a few buses across the park. Men who play

tennis with women, it seems, have little care. I sit

down to watch and breath some darkness; an evening

air blowing in from other parts  -  across shorelines and

old Indian paths. These are all the things I love.

-

My hands are strong enough yet to break a branch

and form a fire. We sit on haunches now, deep immersed

in an island wood  -  no one else about, no citified mass

of lumber and folk quite yet. Our journey, damned as

it already is, is just about beginning. The clock within

me says : 1624. Dutchmen, just now, are landing.