A crystal pink sheen over the Manhattan skyline greets a steel gray sky above.
Across the East River, all the buildings' aspects are sharply refined by the glow of a sunset yet to come.
We can't see the show yet.
This prelude, the reflective highlights, have only just begun.
What a day to forget my phone.
Though I had spent the day on hold.
My one desire to be left alone, in relative peace, untethered, unconnected.
Without a camera, I began to freestyle, as I do, artist untamed, alone.
There's the Empire State, over there the Chrysler and the Sony behind. It is still Sony?
The pancake of the UN office tower overlooking a grass field only the select few have ever used.
It's one of two helipads along the East River.
The other is the active NYU/Bellevue trauma center, helicopter corner.
Tall NYU student residences bookend the bucolic Stuyvesant Town zone.
Stuy-Town: Where I had one of the best dates of my life.
I love you, Stuy-town. The trees, the winding paths.
And the famous ConEd that last blew up in ninety six but we good, not too bad.
Turning my eyes to see the Williamsburg Bridge connecting us to Manahatta Isle.
I keep turning to see our LIC zone and "Wow!! Look," I say the assembled crowd.
"There's the moon in the East, like us, waiting for the show.
What are those, asteroids or comets, streaking through the sky?"
I'd be taking pictures of Father Moon with a comet streaking along.
One comet is diving directly over the Empire State, that stately edifice, world renowned.
Patient as always, art deco head ever held up high, like us, awaiting the sun's intro.
We love you Freedom Tower! You deserve more respect. Not saying anything wrong. At least, not yet.
Hey ho! Here comes the show!
The sun, a giant ball of fire eases into our view through the 34th Street corridor.
"Great show, Mother Earth. Better than any fireworks, ever."
Golds, oranges and reds reflect more pinks and lilacs glimmering off shiny objects.
“We love you Jersey!” I shout to looks of concern.
“And you, America, the place we call our home.”
Looks of concern change as the watchers understand my tome.
I try not to weep as the heavens greet the land in a glow of goodness that feeds my pained soul.
"We send our love to all our family wherever you roam.
It’s still sunny in Cincinnati," I say as the crowd now seems to understand my poem.
Cleveland, Chicago even Denver.
El Diablo, El Dorado, Fugitive Lands, even gorgeous catacombs.
We, New Yorkers, we’re not so bad.
Some days we even pray en masse.
Sending love and sacred light.
Bountiful sunlight that we forever grant to America, our own.
