33rd Street

We found a table and few chairs to sit in Bryant park. These chairs had woolen covers over their backrests and were reserved for the knitting group. But we could sit there. I looked out into the group before us and my train of thought stopped abruptly. I looked out at all those pleasant faces, but the face I sought was not there. That yarn of grey and yellow - two odd colours - turning into a nondescript patch of alternating colour was not there. There were autumn leaves, sheep in the middle of the park, wool being dyed and woven into yarns and onlookers.

As I walked back in darkness, the music, fighting for space, seemed odd. That little Chinese boy playing his keyboard in an ever changing rhythm, his father, right out of a newspaper article, looking on, a lone singer choosing those lonely notes no one wanted to hear... Bring me a good tune, and I shall release rationality from my tight embrace.