Ah, the Promenade.
Not only did the river sparkle, the pavement shine, but foliage glittered in a sheer veil peppered with morning dew. She walked past the outstanding relics whose branches, bare and brown, giggled at her footsteps. The mist, in mirth, it mirrored the delight.
“Come write with me,” she beckoned to the proud old trees.
It gave her joy to capture the magical experience and embroider it onto a broader shroud of dreams. That glorious summer morning, music danced with words, and words danced on pages. A new romance evolved from the waltz of pen and paper.
At a distance, a massive bridge woke up as its veins increasingly filled with cars, joggers, pets, tourists, passersby—the lifeblood of the city. As a new ensemble, the proud old masterpiece listened, tuned and began a new movement of sounds and stories. A symphony developed that is Brooklyn, the county of proud old Kings—poignant, precious, perennial.