50° F, mid-January. Shameful, I know, but if this is global warming, fill me up, give me more, take me Home to Spring.
I wait for the light to turn and look up squinting, the Sun beams warm the bones, the soul.
I cross Madison and head up 48th.
The City that never sleeps is in peripatetic flight – cabs zigzagging, buses spewing exhaust, delivery trucks unloading the day’s provisions, couriers on bikes, commuters with one foot on gas, one hand on horn, street sweepers with rotating brushes raising dust, garbage trucks with their putrid stench, shopkeepers lifting their steel grates, street vendors setting out their apples, bananas and bagels – – and thoughts.
Walking these same concrete streets in a New Year. No cake, no candles, no party hats at 10 years. Here walks an off-center screw, never quite center, never just right – and yet the hand re-grips, shredding those fine threads, tightening and tightening cross-thread. Must find Proof.
Our Stonehenge skyscrapers look down, hulking, somber, stoic and see what? A middle aged man, black coat, black shoes, black case swinging in his right hand, rushing cross-town – another New Yorker scurrying to get ahead.
The man looks up at Stonehenge as if hearing their whispers. No Stones, No. This here is the country boy, arms extended as wings, running down the dirt road, rainbow calling, a free bird.
I turn left into Times Square and millions of brilliant neon multicolor lights light up Stonehenge and the heavens. A Rainbow.
The arms are instinctively pulled up leaving their sides, searching for wings; flaps up little boy, flaps up. And now he’s flying with McEwen: “rainbow arches across the fields, gleaming over the pale blue sky and grayish clouds, as if pointing with one delicate finger: here, you belong here.”