New York is quiet in the mornings. It’s the only time it’s quiet. Pigeons. That’s all you hear. And if you’re moving, it’s usually in a car over the Brooklyn Bridge and it’s the tongue and groves you hear underneath the tires as they roll and skip over them: “...pa pap...pa pap...pa pap.” All the trees are skeletal this time of year and the weather predictions are about as reliable as the stock market’s. This morning the fog rolls in like the massive wave in my dream last night. The one I was sure I was going to drown under. I saw it rise like a swelling balloon and I felt my heart sink. There are so many things I still want to do. People in my life whose eyes I want to look into one more time. “I love you.” “I love you too”. And in the dead of sleep you find yourself having to make a decision: scratch for safety and try to make it over Everest or turn your board around and fall with every fear you’ve ever confronted, the running of the bulls of Pamplona and you’re there alone, stuck still, psychically ratcheted down. Go: scream into the deafening off shore wind, stand up in front of an ominous claw grabbing for you, race down the face with millions of tons of water forced to shore by some raging storm way out at sea. Remember the last time I told you I love you? Well, I love you. I love you very much. Going. Then silence in the fog of New York. This car rolling along the Brooklyn Bridge. I made the wave, woke up, walked outside and listened to the pigeons. You’re still crystal clear to me no matter what dream I’m pretending to live through. All of you.