Adirondack Air
At the foot of the massive massif bluffs which bounce atop upstate New York,
The air is thick with suburban smog bottled beneath the mountains' unpopped cork.
The fumes from factories of the foothill folk have feigned a fluorescent flora:
Sickly neon trees which litter the mountains' feet with a parasitized dimming aura.
Yet through the upward winding roads which sprint through the veins of Troy,
A thinning air begins to brag of a bigger breath that which a tree might better enjoy.
For in the Adirondack Park, where a mile up is met by one hundred and sixty wide,
The savior of the Mountain Air sits above the broken boundaries beneath her sides.
Rescued from the valley below where breath is but a wanton worry of what comes next,
I've been blessed with a chance to escape from the underworld of wires, screens and texts.
I thank these mountains for their unblemished air which echoes with songs of loons,
Who skim across the trickled placid puddles of lake where people party upon pontoons.
I owe the Mountain Air for my view of life as love,
A sight some miss without a chance to see from up above.
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