I’ve been back in Portland a month now, my body slowing to match floating snow flakes and the steady cascade of rain. But I’ve a few entries more to complete my time in New York, so this one will cross on the bridge of waters.
The water towers of New York City are everywhere seen but unnoticed in the daily flow, save for a few bold or stylishly decorated ones. Thanks to the exultant relation of water to gravity, noted by the whitecoats in kilopascals, a tower sitting higher than the place of usage means tempetuous motion delivered to roiling boil of the pasta pot, the steam-scour of dirt from bodies, the stilled glass consumed and reborn in action.
A sad thing we no longer cup our hands in cold creek to drink the living body of water, but what a gift it comes to us at the lightest demand. We should not take it for granted, but we do. So here’s looking at you, great basins of aqueous commotion.