Vignettes of Poughkeepsie: Walkway Over the Hudson, Monday, January 30, 9:30 a.m.
The first thing you notice is the wind.
It tries to sift through you as if you’re a hole in the universe that it desperately needs to fill, a solid structure that nature skews into a vacuum for her own purposes, as she pushes and pulls you one way or another.
Next, your peripheral vision catches the snow piles melting on either side of you, pushed into banks that resemble the sidelines of a football field, paving the path ahead for all who seek it — steadily onward, as far as the eye can see, all the way to the flag that waves high above the water.
It’s a route I’ve walked, jogged, and tracked countless times—and yet, it’s new to me.
The trees that shield and frame the start of the walkway cast shadows upon the ground, bleeding together like corn stalks, alternating with the lighter shades of gray that see the sun.
As I walk, I zone out to the sounds of “Karla with a K” but I’m brought back to earth with the loud horn of a train, and I nod in understanding to the neon vests that pass me with their windshield wiper arms, moving fast, faster, fastest. The friendly wave, the frigid hands. We are both sacrificing a morning in bed to appreciate our surroundings instead.
The walk opens up over the town, with a white steeple rising above the drudgery of industry like a European postcard, or a fragment of a fairy tale. The cars below, like Hot Wheels, begging to be picked up and sorted, or brought through this world on a path of your choosing.
I look ahead, and refocus. The flag waves ever nearer, and the river hovers below, full of life and mystery, while its history is written on the metal posts beside me. A leaf, a cigarette stub, and I’m almost there.
It’s the dead of winter, but the dawn of day. The benches may be empty, but the sun is still shining.
The tide may be turning, but the flag is still waving.
