Unambitious capitulating light from artificial sources, we can’t tell where the bloom fragrance originates. So we call out happily to and about it, another springtime string harmonic phased with the warmth and the still. Saturday night’s improbable deceptive quiet, but this is the periphery or at least the urban steppe where the sounds of going out gain energy and momentum enough to disappear from earshot. Instead cassette pawls’ snicksnicksnick deflecting off the buildings during our reveries side by side, then an observation, a vision, a hope, a thought, speaking the code is so familiar now it doesn’t even seem like a language I once didn’t.
We reach Central Park, a loop in a treescape in a city on an island but mostly in an idea. Raccoons scurry to the verge but then turn as if remembering that as New Yorkers they should be brazen, we pass through clouds of pot smoke from sources even less known than the flowers before, she points out the sculpture on the roof of the Met, a few horse drawn tourist carriages, and yet still we’ve found mostly more silence. Riding during the day there’s always a certain consciousness of oneself as a regarded object, but now in our tiny sphere it’s more time to see out breathe get carried along on road swells sailing propelled on charcoal velvet visible behind.
Returning. Weaving handlebar lamps toward us on the bike path, the last of a trio of hasidim on motley transportation bikes greets us with a big nod and grin, his forefinger wordlessly snapped into the air over his head, ahoy, or we’re out here isn’t it glorious, or pedal on!, all the meanings in it, the sociality, the metaphor for connection, lifting us a bit higher in our roll toward the spangling Freedom Tower ahead and the end of the ride.