As the icy wind blows off my Hudson River on 26th street and forces my chin into my clavicle, the bright silvery light of the sun rises above the public housing rooftops and cuts through my eyelashes infusing my mind.
I am full of light for the moment.
My steps forward blind, and my ears and nostrils open to the cold air.
Where am I? The concept of 26th street, my homeland, the artifice of landmark and my place, are dissolved by the morning light.
Instinctively, I lower my head, turning three quarters to the sun, and I see shadows of employees of unnamed jobs tucked in their dark winter clothes move towards me on their way to work.
A new dawn of becoming emerges.
Back in my body, I gingerly face the sun again,
gently hoping to disappear again
into it's light for another moment,
but I've taken too many steps forward and a street sign and the edge of a building are ever so slightly making the brightness obscured.
No dissolve except as a memory.
With soft sadness I write this down.
But I will dissolve another day.