One, two stars

And the sweep of a cloud across the half-lit moon

The red eyes of the factory towers blink slowly to signal they're alright.

Red eyes also dot the bridges and the buildings across the water.

Three, four, five stars if you look closely,

But one's actually a satellite, and another a flickering plane.

It's quiet the way New York is quiet. People still shuffle past.

There's soft snippets of conversation, the faint barking of dogs, clicking of bicycle treads

And always, always the distant rush of cars along the highways.

I an feel something rumbling underneath my wooden bench.

I'd like to think it's the vibration of the waves permeating through the pavement

But nah, that's the cars too.