Sitting here on the old bald-top hill,
The quietness of the summit is so intense
I can hear a lone cricket sounding near,
Chirping birds and rustling leaves.
The steel mill below is a muffled roar.
Far off is the clickety-clack of a railroad train,
The whistle from the steamboat
Seems to blend with a child’s vibrant squeal.
The sounds from trucks, cars and people below
Create a strangely beautiful symphonic melange.
Our river flowing gently and endlessly
Runs between two long continuous ridges
Dressed with trees interspersed with homes
And the sculpted frieze on our inner city:
Office buildings, church steeples and tenements.
Lace-like bridges connect our city to the other one
Across that long breadth of river.
A string of factories and steel mill mills
Confronts an army of dirty faced homes
Running east, then south beside the river.
The older, yet still stately, homes are to the north.
A brisk wind shuts out the view
With low flying clouds and raindrops,
Leaving me with the wind’s whistling
And memories of an unforgettable tapestry—
The most beautiful home I ever will know.
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