Snow swirling out of fog on the river this morning. Gulls flying low, staying close to the railing. Two Gadwalls padddled by with snow on their backs. None of the winter birds are here yet; must still be warm up where they live, so there’s still food. This is troubling in a long-term, climate-change way. Meanwhile, down here, the callery pear trees are full of robins, sometimes eight or ten in a tree. Callery pears are planted for their gorgeous blossoms, but they do have tiny little fruits. They’re hard as rocks until after they freeze and thaw. Then they’re mushy and the robins make quite a living on them until spring. The city planting so many callery pears may be one of the reasons our robins don’t migrate any more. Birds leave when the food’s gone and up here in the banquet that’s NYC, the food’s never gone.
Archive for Journal
Slinking under folded clouds,
Runner’s orange shirt
Circles beneath pier’s white tent,
Bounces back inland.
Hilltop houses glow —
Sun striking through hole in clouds.
Shoreline’s in shadow.
If you’re not from NYC — or even if you are — you may have missed this phenomenon. Dyker Heights is a neighborhood in Brooklyn where the phantasmagoria of Christmas lights has, over the years, become both art and sport. People come from far and wide to view them, myself being no exception. Herewith, some examples. Lots more on Flickr; click on any of these to get there.
Ship chugs upriver
Against sharp-shadowed towers,
Glowing in sunlight.
At piling field’s end
Seagull floats on still water,
Cormorant dries wings.
Four dachshunds on morning walk.
Three silent, one loud.
Heavy dark gray clouds.
Thin spot over skyscrapers.
Pearly light shines down.
Brown bark, bare branches,
Gray stone pathway, winter grass.
Neon green tee shirt!
Wind blows hard from north.
Tide turns, river heads for sea.
Three seagulls fly low.
Square sharp-sided skyscrapers,
Velvet purple clouds.
Three seagulls glide by.
Flapping hard the other way,
One heads into wind.
Trees on far shore bare,
Revealing three brick buildings
Like winter flowers.
Last night I was thinking of the Knicks and of horror movies at the same time. So, with thanks and apologies to to Jennifer Kent:
Throws up an airball, throws up a brick —
You can’t get rid of the BabaKnick.
Turns the ball over for no good reason —
The BabaKnick’s coming to murder the season.
Doesn’t rebound, makes dumb fouls —
The BabaKnick’s coming, hear the fans howl.
Can’t play D, leaves shooters wide open —
The BabaKnick’s killing a year we had hope in.
Phil Jackson is nauseous, Derek Fisher’s in fright —
The BabaKnick’s giving them many bad nights.
But there’s one silver lining, I tell you true:
Jim Dolan’s afraid of the BabaKnick, too.