(We rejoin our hero crossing the Queensboro Bridge.)
I duck under cover of the bridge, hoping the rain will soon pass. The painting is still safe and dry while my hands have become cold and wet.
I look up at the elaborate structure above me.
And I think of the men who climbed all this scaffolding to put this whole thing together.
And I look at the sky behind the lights of the bridge and I see the way that night changes the city.
The way that light and darkness battle it out for supremacy as the color leaves everything.
Sun sets. Rain clouds gather. And the city glows.
Rain falls and the light catches it for a second and makes it look like a firefly in the park on a summer night.
The rain settles back into a drizzle. And then the drizzle fades.
But it may return again.
So I leave my cover and hurry down the rest of the ramp to exit the bridge.
My painting is still safe and dry.
(Tune in tomorrow for the next installment.)