Charleston, West Virginia

There is something about the air,

The smell of evening dew sweeps the streets,

Warm and eerie with a touch of sweet peach and pear.

Brushing by cars and trees, elites and deadbeats.

The wind of the Elk creates ripples,

swashing aimlessly towards the river’s mouth.

On waves, the ray of the sun stipples

Gleaning off the clock tower pointing south.

Then, music.

It emanates from the docks,

Bluegrass riding over green grass.

 People watching, couples dancing, children eating.

There is something about the air,

The lure of the land and the expressions of a people’s face.

The rusty tin license plate echoes my thoughts bare:

what a wild and wonderful place.