eleven

We sat by the river and watched the glowing, late-summer sun set over New Jersey beyond. It is so far uptown, I can't believe it's the same river, the same stroke of flood that passes Morton Street only eighty blocks down. The promenade was full of after-work runners, of a thousand dog owners and two children in pajamas. We drank our sangria and enjoyed the chill.

Later, I ran along the now-dark waters, the New Jersey skyline glittering beyond and sending menacing  lights into the low clouds. The water was high; it looked like one, flat, black carpet stretching to the other shore and one could easily step over the railing and run away. They had the memorial lights on when I came home from work, twin spires beating out into the vast emptiness above, but they were black again by the time I went out. The day comes every year. As it passes.

The city breathes,
perpetually.