First day of fall and already they're dressing for winter on the high plains, he writes with a snicker. Along the river, I ran past a woman in a fleece jacket, while I was drenched in sweat wearing nothing. It was early in the morning, the East Village still sleeping and my bike ride to the run like a gentle meditation, just a few quiet minutes of rolling eastward, thinking nothing. The train is familiar now, the quick weave through the West Village and descending into Penn Station right as the track is announced, remembering to pick a river view seat. September first and already the Hudson is dressed in a mysterious mist, the first tinge of yellow seeps through the foliage. After a summer that wasn't, somehow the change is welcome, like my body is ready to build its new life, like everything has disintegrated into dust anyway, why not build something that can last.
I don't mean to say everything is over.
I mean when we make the most of what we have, instead of what we don't, we may end up with miracles.
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