Sitting at the Fairway patio, with a view of the gray-green choppy waters of the Bay, Staten Island, and one tower of the Verrazano framed between posts of the water taxi’s floating dock. Families with kids, couples old & young, a few solos like me; the long range of the old red brick warehouses with their deepset, black-painted arched windows, some with tall shutters flapped back or closed. It flooded down here last week, but I can’t see the evidence. The yellow water taxi motors past, noisily, coming up I guess from Bay Ridge, but does not stop, and above us the noise is a helicopter, but it’s pretty drowsy overall: warm, humid, gray-clouded with palest blue behind. It’s the last day of unofficial summer, and I’m not sure I don’t agree with the nearly-toddler crying in unspecific frustration. But a little breeze flickers off the bay, in my earbuds a tune called “Agua” splashes, and I can’t be too discontented, for the moment.
Labor Day, Red Hook