The bike lane under the Bruckner Expressway isn’t more than a couple of years old. But I believe I can safely say that I’ve ridden it dozens, if not a hundred or more, times.
While pedaling Tosca, my Mercian Dixie, near the lane’s southern end, I caught a glimpse of this:
On a grimy industrial block of East 140th Street, some men enjoyed a canopy more beautiful, to my eye, than any offered at the entrances of the most sumptuous Park and Fifth Avenue buildings.
Of course, those men may not have seen it that way: I couldn’t tell whether they live, work or simply hang out on the block. And I didn’t try to take a closer image of them because one of them eyed me suspiciously. Perhaps it means I’m not really an artist or even journalist after all: My respect for his privacy won out over my desire to “create” or “make a statement.”
Or maybe I am: The inherent beauty of that cherry blossom, and the cloak of light and graceful curves it offered in a space bounded by concrete, asphalt, chicken wire and steel girders, impressed enough on me, however imperfectly I’ve captured it on my iPhone camera.
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