Long line of single-file Brant geese this morning, flying north like a wave as each followed the leader rising and falling. And then, fishing in the piling field: a male bufflehead! Early, but the Brants were also early when they came a month ago. Do they know something about how hard the winter will be that I don’t?
Archive for Cmedia
River report
Cold, is the report. Walked out the door this morning and felt an icy wind, got no warmth from the sun, though it was bright. Fall may come and go a couple more times; that happens around here (and will go on until climate change destroys us). But when it comes back now it’ll be a visitor. Winter has moved in and taken over the lease. Tan leaves dropping from some trees, gold ones from others; on a pine that suffered in last year’s hurricane, tiny icicles hanging from the needles at the ends of the lower branches. That tree might not make it. Sharp waves on restless water. Bright blue sky, sun lower with every morning, not making it to my bench anymore. Migration’s pretty much over, which means the mallard, Gadwall, and black duck pairs seen swimming around here are intending to stay. Canada geese have gone, and Brants have arrived. Waiting for the buffleheads, who come around mid-December. Jogger and dog-walker traffic by the river has thinned way out, leaving the place to the diehards and hardheads, like me.
Forty-fifth Saturday
Restless gray water.
A thousand small, sharp-peaked waves
Shake river’s surface.
White boat races south.
Black-back gull wheels from piling.
Brown sparrows speed by.
Breeze gentle but cold.
Runners now wear scarves and gloves.
Yellow leaves spot path.
Forty-fourth Saturday, one week late*
On flat gray river
Under rumpled silver clouds
Three white kayaks speed.
Trees turn yellow-green,
Gold, orange, brown. On far shore,
Single maple’s red.
Marathon rally.
Loud music. Passing joggers
Adjust steps’ rhythm.
*I know there’s one missing, from Shanghai. It will turn up.
Forty-second Saturday, from Dongshuan, two week and five days late
Yellow gingko leaves
Glow against drifting white mist.
Emptiness beyond.
Peaked roofs step uphill
Others downhill in two rows,
Vanish into fog.
Green, brown terraces —
Last year’s rice, this year’s harvest —
Appear and disappear.
Forty-first Saturday, from Shanghai, three weeks and five days late
Shanghai blue-sky day.
Pearl Tower astride skyline
Looks for clouds to pierce.
River of cyclists
All flowing one direction
Under shadowed bridge.
Early-day shoppers
Sniff fish, weigh rice, squeeze peaches,
Pass coins over, smile.
Last chance
To get BLOOD OF THE LAMB for your Kindle at the ridiculous price of $2.99! Sam Cabot’s mad publisher ends the promo deal today. So consider it a gift to yourself to celebrate Bill de Blasio’s NYC mayoral victory, and snap one up!
I love New York
Went to the NYC Marathon yesterday, and am proud to say my subjective and unscientific opinion is the course was even more crowded with spectators than usual. Lots of runners wearing blue ribbons for Boston; lots of cops and dogs, but the mood was high and the day was gorgeous. Some moments:
A group of people on the subway with me, who’d cheered their runner on in Brooklyn, jumped on the subway to applaud her in Queens, and were now hurrying to upper Manhattan so they could cheer for her as she entered the park and buoy her up for the last two miles.
A man holding high a sign saying, “We are proud of you, total strangers.”
A number of tough-looking women, including one Asian woman, in FDNY Running Club tee shirts.
An unusually high number of people, about equally divided between men and women, running in tutus. Is something going on I don’t know about?
A guy in a full-length banana suit.
A guy in a “Doctor Dribble” tee shirt dribbling two basketballs. For 26 miles? In a crowd of thousands? And I can’t get up the court with one?
And:
Chants of “Boston! Boston!” every time someone went by in a “Boston Strong” shirt. (You’ve got to know how much NYC and Boston hate each other in every sports category.)
A glorious afternoon. I love New York.
I love New York
Outside my door, 7:30 this morning, a film crew unloads its equipment while the director and production designer look dismayed. They point to this and that; I eavesdrop. Seems when they applied for their permit to film today on our cobblestoned 19th-century street, they were expecting the usual gentle melancholic autumn ambience. Didn’t occur to them that all up the block the stoops would be studded with pumpkins, the railings draped with cobwebs, and the doorways propping up witches.
Meanwhile, at the river, the woman who works with her trainer on Tuesdays and Thursdays three benches down from mine is at it, lifting weights, doing pushups. Her trainer, a large fellow, looms over her, encouraging her, correcting her form. She’s in workout tights and tee shirt. He’s costumed, head to foot, as the Grim Reaper.
I love New York.
