The Hudson is alive with the waves and toxic fish which some bait despite the warnings. Choppers fly by like flies and land like flies, making a noise that only New Yorkers can be deaf to. The sun rises on the East side, but sets in Jersey, leaving a trail of colors that is indescribable. All sorts of people go by, walking, talking, buzzing. Tough lives are forgotten as the sail boats bob in the waters of high tide. The statue of liberty still waits with its arm raised and the Brooklyn bridge carries its hipster solidiers by the trainful. New York is well and alive around the twenty something and 12th near Chelsea.
Sometimes what you don't see in the picture says a lot more than what you do see in the picture. What the picture's captured magnificent autumn colors, the duck making its way across the sky that has fallen down in the lake, the sun taking its annual vacation on the trees making them turn yellow and gold, the flatirons in the distance - don't show is the coyote that hurried its way to the water, drinking its fill and going quickly out of sight. Scaring a few rabbits. But it paid no mind to the white tailed wonders. It was on some other quest. What the picture doesn't play back is the soft sound of the birds who are quiet this time of the year. Cars stop, people get out, people run, people run with dogs, dogs run with people, cameras with their flashes (oh why), camera with their flashes closed (phew), everything and everyone stands, watches this view, captures it, Instagrams it and Facebooks it. And move on. Always hurrying away. Like the coyote. And I wonder, sitting there, not moving, not running, not running with my Nikes on, not running with a dog - that there are so many stories we will never listen to, never hear, never look for - for they exceed our internal camera specifications of finite megapixels.
The troubles of being a gypsy don't come with the travels. They arise when you go back to things. Places. People. You go back, often with memories - green - expectant that you will be met with the laughter, the joy, the solitude that you found so dear once. You approach with weary, hesitant steps. Only to find old walls and dried branches of what once used to be the evergreen shades of comforting friendships and everything home. But that's natural. People move on. Things decay. Friendships run out of conversations. The trouble starts when you begin enjoying this decay, this passing of things. This going back to ruins of what you loved. Goddamn it, you love it so much that it doesn't hurt anymore. It would, if it wasn't this way.
A sky full of young ones. Baby Orioles. Baby barn swallows – in feeding frenzy. Baby Violet Green swallows – who took wing and fluttered about carelessly, amazingly. A sky full of Brewer’s Blackbirds who settle down in thousands on one big patch of land across 33rd. A sky full of rainbows, double. A sky full of stories from the past told in shapes of clouds. A sky reflected down in a pond where we saw an Otter! Or that’s what we thought and then furiously searched the internet. To figure that while the very endangered Otter has been spotted around town, this was probably his cousin – the mink. He’s cute. Or she’s cute. A sky full of swallows. A sky full of clouds. A sky full of sky.