After the rain

There is a boat sailing on the Hudson, floating upstream with the tide, its naked mast pointing at a clearing sky. There are puddles, torn dandelions, the last pink petals on bonnets of parked cars. The red lighthouse is washed clean. There are those who've taken paths leading down to the murky river to sit alone on rocks overlooking the bridge and New Jersey - the green landscape beyond. Then the sun tears through the clouds and the gurgling river shines like oil. At a distance, a screeching train sounds like the cries of a terrified child, and barking dogs oddly like rewinding cassettes. Behind branches that are still bare Midtown rises, smoky blue.