At dusk I draw the first support carrying the weight of the bridge spanning the East River. My proportions are not quite right and my eye is not taken under the span to a distant point. But I love sitting on the bench and trying. The runners, their skin shinning, and the walkers pass by and a deep humming barge, fills the river, its wake breaks off and fights the cresting tide. And as night appears, a homeless man, quiet and light, sits nearby, takes a puzzle out of his bag and a pencil and works under the sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment