This is another one of those cool, foggy mornings. As I sit here and write about questions concerning the effects of “constant change” (my next post), I hear the fog horns on the bay and East River. I feel the closer one in my chest. One calling to another, “I am here. Be careful.” The other calling, “I hear you. Hear I am, be careful.” One after the other, the horns blow. One to all the others. One closer than the others.
It’s funny to think of this kind of thing in this kind of City. Perhaps I expect to hear old fog horns only in small fishing towns, but New York City? Sometimes, it is hard to remember that this place sits on the ocean, surrounded by two rivers, a bay, an ocean. The sound of fog horns just doesn’t jibe with the notion of modern New York City, for some strange reason. I like it.
Go Tribe!