Winter is near, and night drapes quickly over the city, a black satin
sheath to be decorated by the early stars. But the skyline is
different, the glass and stone soldiers that elbow for prominence at
the river’s edge don’t shine bright until the river blackens out of
sight, not until the soft whoosh of the final ripples from the ferry
boats lap up against the pier pilings. No, the skyline sleeps late,
then awakens not for the city, for it stretches and smiles brightly,
before an open-mouthed inhale of cold night air, all show, an
opening number, a roaring, leg-kicking first dance for those who
stare and yearn, who pine in nervous indecision on the far shore,
tantalized, pawing at the ground before, perhaps, bridging the
pitch water to join the city splash, for if one stays put, feet planted
at a distance, beyond the parquet floor, well….
