It could be old Cape Cod,
with paths thru waving grass;
and off to one's own side,
water inlets I do pass.

With the heat and humid weather,
with a sailboat, off the dock;
with the honking of the mallards,
as the sun bears down on rock.

It could be old New England,
moist and warm toward summer's end;
with the islands in the distance,
offshore,  where pathways bend.

But it's here ... in Arizona,
where the water's just a lake;
with cottonwoods against the sky,
reflections in the sailboat's wake.

It could be memories of youth,
from the man that came out west;
who is now an ancient mariner,
whose old memories are the best.