hera's pallu

Riding south, across the river, a mile
below the Bridge, see?
A tower and forested hills, with leaves
glowing in nooks in the bare, smoky trees,
as if someone’s been shooting paintballs
there, and the wind shearing the earth
to the west and the sky to the east,
and sullen, fast-moving clouds rising, like
in El Greco’s Toledo.

Turn around, love, and see three cities
in a Triborough view:

Manhattan, overhung by massive banks
of dark clouds.
Brooklyn, a sleepy heaven lit by sea-spume
and sun in the wind.
And Queens, calm in soft pink and pools
of white and blue.

Like that, this view’s for you.

View of Toledo by El Greco, at Wikipedia Commons — click on the image, to see it full-sized.

References: (George Washington) Bridge, El Greco (artist), Toledo (oil painting by El Greco), Triborough (Bridge), Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens

Riding south on the Major Deegan, across
the river, a mile below the George Washington
Bridge, see?  The tower, bluffs and an island of
tree-covered hills.

And today, sun-painted faces of rows of fast-
moving, sullen clouds — like El Greco’s Toledo.
The wind shapes branches into masses of gray
and shears them to the west, and the sky moves
east.   It’s early in December.  Someone’s been
shooting paintballs into the trees, or so it seems,
the way leaves glow in sheltered nooks.  When
you swing around to the Triborough view, see?
Three cities at once.

Manhattan’s in shock, threatened by
banks of huge clouds that dwarf its towers.
Brooklyn’s still asleep, its heavens lit with
pale fire, a boiling rage of ocean, wind
and sun that runs fast to sea.
And Queens?  She swoons in tatters
of soft pink floss, while overhead, smears
of blue say winds are calm over
the Sound.

Like that, this
view’s for you.

Riding southeast down
the Major Deegan, about a mile
below the George Washington Bridge,
there’s a heaven of driven clouds,
like El Greco’s Toledo.
The clouds rise over the river
and the hills of Manhattan beyond.
On the bluffs, the wind shears trees west,
molding twigs into gray billows.
The clouds move fast — they seem
to bend the sky to eastward — and
in their shadows, leaves (some are still alive)
glow in sheltered nooks.

We swing around to a Triborough view –
three cities at once –
Manhattan: shocked and overhung
with massive banks of grays,
its towers like toys.
Brooklyn: asleep while ranks of pale fire — boiling
rages of ocean, wind and sun –
run out to sea.
And Queens: soft in pinkish floss under
smears of blue that say winds have
calmed over the Sound.

Heading down the eastern span,
I’m thinking how to share the view with you.