This afternoon I went back down to the Hudson, which somewhat miraculously in the intervening 24 hours had become filled with ice.
Although it was bitterly cold and the temperature probably 150,000 degrees below zero (with the wind chill), I felt entranced by the coruscating light as it reflected off the ice and the seagulls, which for whatever reason felt compelled to fly upriver, against the wind.
I remembered growing up and how of all the books my parents kept on a few small shelves in the living room, one of my favorites was Jonathan Livingston Seagull.
I also remember how, during the gerbil-phase of my childhood, one of the gerbils escaped and gnawed at the corner of this book, so that its pages from that point on were always a bit frayed.
At some point when I was older, I picked up the book again and recognized why it was not considered ‘great literature.’
Turning north, I admired the bridge in the sunlight.
I watched one last bird fight valiantly against the wind.
I wondered if it knew why it was flying, and if it would ever get home.
