East River, Evening

East River, late afternoon, Labor Day 2007. Swirls and churning, gray-green beast pouring down the chanel towards Roosevelt Island. Hot afternoon, city folk gathered along the promenade, strolling, an old rottweiler on his master’s leash, a shepherd, a retriever… People sitting on the dark green benches, reading, books of all kinds—a city of readers, where the words matter, or so it feels, fragility of the printed page, or perhaps just the intimacy of figure with a book set against the expanse of the river.

The air goes from warmer to cooler with each slight breeze—you wonder where the wind comes from here, not constant, off the bay as at home.

John Finley Park, at 90th Street, Gracie Manshion, the mayor’s abode. Hizzoner, hidden away behind the trees. Sloping up and above, the East River Drive with muffled roar of cars carved out below.

Languages of all kinds—people calling their children in phrases you’ve never heard. Young guy with elaborate SLR squatting to frame his lithe Southeast Asian companinion. She sits, graceful and a touch self-conscious, in front of the ancient curved iron railing running along the water’s edge.

Looking downtown, a broad view of the city, antique steel bracelet of the Queensborough Bridge, silver filigree, 19th century arch. One section covered with a padded blanket, as if for the evening. Tall buildings, always, topped by energetic cranes. Feeling of age and potential.