I'll be quick about this.

Lee and I just got back from New York late last night. Serious eating happened. Now it's time for me to go on a diet. I wrote most of a song in my head, Saturday night as I drove through the Catskill Mountains. It could go as a polka, but I prefer it as a backwoods, bluegrass-style number. Either way is probably fine.

It's called "Catskill Beaty Queen." To prepare for it, I need to develop a bluegrass holler like Bill Monroe, no small task.

Oh, but that trip to New York. It's difficult to put into words, because there were only images, snapshots of marvel and beauty. I've said this one before, but it sticks with me: Thursday morning, the snow falling in torrents form the sky, she turned to me, framed by a canyon of steel and the swirling snow and I thought to myself come away with me and be queen in the fantastic land of my dreams.


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