When my son was studying poetry last year, he and his friends got a big kick deriding a poem I had written in college. It went like this: O, Moon. That's it, just "O, Moon." I set myself up for this ridicule to make a point, of course, about poetry; its boundaries and freedoms. I remember writing the poem, on a train from Boston to New York, on a clear night when the huge moon hung up there, following me home. It was a great comfort to me but when I tried to match it with words, only the simplest ode would do.

Last weekend was like that moon. Too perfect and elusive to match with words, I will just describe the events as clearly as I can. There was such an array of cultural and natural events, we had to choose carefully, and I'm sure we missed some good ones.

We arrived late to our home by the river. The Harvest Moon had risen earlier, greeted, I am told, by a small tribe of devotees along the Bashakill. It lit our entrance well enough to forego the usual electric light. The children had to be carried to their beds. Though the moon shone on the dark river, it was the scent of autumn air I was most aware of, still warm enough to sit outside until sleep beckoned. The next day, the river fairly called to us.

Dragging the kayaks across a wobbly suspension bridge requires dedication and desire on the part of two children and their mom. We had both, and before long we were paddling out into the Big Eddy, compatriots to scuba divers and fishermen making the most of this fine day. Reflexively I had packed a simple lunch, which we were soon thankful for. As we dug out our PBJs, and pulled up our paddles, our crafts hovered together as if by some scientific principle. Attraction of like energies? We sat in our kayaks, next to each other, but separate, close enough to share snacks, and enjoyed a floating picnic, pleased with ourselves and our situation.

That night found us at the Western Hotel in Callicoon for a WJFF fundraiser, listening to the "Sons of the Never Wrong," a folk trio from Chicago. We went mostly to support the station we love, but left feeling gifted by it. The Western Hotel, for the uninitiated, is worth a trip itself. It feels like a Western dance hall of the 1890's, though it is completely up to date and comfortable. River tones of green and blue and brown artfully adorn the pressed-tin ceilings. The only drawback to the place is the apparent free reign given cigar smokers, who are legion.

"The Sons of the Never Wrong," is two sons short of its name. The only male member, Bruce, plays guitar. Debbie plays mandolin and guitar, and the spritely Sue is on drums. All three vocalize in a remarkable kind of harmony, interspersed with scat-like lyrical punctuations. The group never stops moving; from shadow puppets of birds dancing on the backdrop to Sue and Debbie's school-yard hand-games in the "Seven Chinese Girls." Each song is performance art more than anything, with what I came to think of as vocal isometrics, they are so perfectly controlled and pitched. Their lyrics are so witty and intelligent that Sue's remark that they are thankful for the gig, else they would be singing in the shower ("where the acoustics are good") made me think they would more likely be dot-com geniuses rolling in dough if we turned our backs on them. No one is likely to give them that opportunity soon.

Sunday was an entirely new adventure. We never did make it to the DVAA brunch, or the Walk for Social Justice in Beach Lake, opting instead for a stimulating photographic odyssey in Jeffersonville at the home of Pulitzer Prize-winner, Eddie Adams. But that experience will have to wait for another telling. For now, I leave you with a poem: "O, River Valley!"