Commute

The arc of the Manhattan bridge is long and it bends toward Manhattan. 

At an hour before the sun has risen, tracing the arc with my bicycle, 

the same person bikes by in the other direction with a mask on, I keep time by them, they are my metronome.

the same garbage train rumbles out of the tunnel carrying a day’s worth of garbage briefly from tunnel to open air and back again,

the same one light in a whole luxury building illuminates a quiet-looking living room with a red couch,

and the East River is at peace with itself, if not completely still then at least unhurried by the day ahead. 

These things are given. 

It’s the unusual touches that double take. 

An unreturned wave to the biker.

A worker standing at the front of the garbage train like that scene in Titanic.

A person meditating cross-legged before the red couch.

Seagulls circling below me in white shapes against the dark water.

A beaver moon gnawing away at the night.