The Hudson
Sitting on old-man benches facing different directions, longing for different lives, the white-haired lighthouses eye-sweep the Hudson Leaves let go. The early November wind conducts a migration of ripples, Bernstein weeping his way through Mahler's Resurrection. A tiny speck of a sailboat skims along the longitude of the canvas as dots of foam appear, the last-minute punctuation of the artist's brush. Traffic flows across the bridge like just-drawn blood and the skyline which has outlived the men and their wrought-iron dreams sits, a city of Legos waiting to be rebuilt.
