I sing a song of Red Hook Fairway. I sing of all the makings of meat ragu and matzo brie; of fennel; of wild rice and farro; of smoked fish and capers and everything bagels still warm from the oven. I sing of meyer lemons and blood oranges and two kinds of kale and chili lime dried mango and seltzer. O! Seltzer gets its own stanza in my song. So does Mz. Liberty, to whom I sing rain or shine–always while munching an egg sandwich made by someone besides me. Coda! I sing of water rushing all about me; of people I love whom I don’t really know: of fish mongers and handsome butchers and checkout sweeties and produce guys with dastardly senses of humor. I sing of mauve skies and salty spray. I sing of fetching the fuel my body needs to sing. I sing.