on the “Harvey” bench at Bartram, at one of those angles where the city fades away and the water is blue – I’ve been waiting for the right place to write, the right time; the right light. The right pen, the right words. The right sound of birds or insects or rustling leaves. The right direction and temperature of wind across my face.The right memories, the right alchemy of sentiment, hope, regret, longing, joy The right sparkle on the water, the right ebb and flow of voices all around you. The right motion of the grass and leaves, the sudden darts and screeches of life running wold; that sensation that everything is lifted, lifting, about to take off, about to connect every thread and every web. You can almost taste it.