The Bridge

When I was a young man living in New Jersey, I would often take the bus across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan, in order to ride the subway downtown to the bookstores, art galleries, and coffee shops of Greenwich Village. One evening the Port Authority Police stopped the bus on which I was traveling, because a blizzard had temporarily closed the bridge. Rather than return home, I decided to walk across the bridge, and it was a memorable experience: I was quickly enveloped in the deep quiet that attends a serious snow fall, and the lights of the great city were barely visible in the spindrift. I could not even see the wide Hudson coursing seaward just below me, and places long familiar had become strange. The storm suddenly increased in intensity, and for a brief moment I feared losing my way, and so I kept my hand steady on the rail as I walked steadily forward into what seemed the very heart of winter. 

The photograph below reminds me of that occasion, and I hope that it both delights everyone with its haunting beauty and perhaps causes a few people to recollect some equally memorable time and place in a now-distant winter of their own.

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