Thanksgiving Day in New York

The trees dripped their honey in thick layers onto the
sidewalk, all a-sparkle and a-flutter in the sun and
almost-wind. The parade floated by, silver with horns
and music, with drummers drumming, and clowns running
and splashing confetti onto delighted children. The Brooklyn
Bridge raised its arms toward the sky, the Brooklyn Bridge–a
temple, a palace, an architect’s dream of a boardwalk with
the green river peeking through its planks. Clouds lined up
above it. White boats slid underneath it. Buildings gathered
round it with the trees–the trees and their glory-filled
branches–bursting between. From the bridge those trees
were clouds of fire hovering over the city streets. No spring
or summer blooms, no October fruit could rival the sweetness
of those late November trees, Thanksgiving Day in New York.

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