Babelicious

It's an odd feeling, looking out over the city on a sunny day from its highest point.

To the south, skyscrapers, and orange plastic construction barriers stand out from the skeletal form of yet another monument thrown up by high finance. To the west of these the sun whitens the river as it turns to sea, and the comparatively low huddle of Jersey City clusters on the far bank. Below, flat, dirty rooves and the spinning fans of air conditioners and heating systems catch the eye before the slow ponderous movement of technicolor traffic in the half-day between the buildings.
North, midtown crowds in, the pale pastel of concrete and stone against corporate black uniforms of smoked glass and a glimpse of the russet of the trees of the park. Manhattan flies away from you, bound by the river on both sides, supported by the rusting steel of its bridges, impossibly massive but balanced precariously at your feet. The wind curls around you and steals the breath from out of your mouth and snatches a leaflet from the hands of the woman next to you. It spirals, flapping as if in panic. She cries out unintelligibly in surprise and laughs.

A white triangle is set, seemingly unmoving, in the grey blue of the river. The wind wrings an empty metallic moan from the masts above and it flees downward through the concrete underfoot. People pose, stare open mouthed, point, laugh, stand thin-lipped.

I speak to England. England hears me, briefly, before the wind takes that breath too, and I fold my phone and slip it into my pocket.
My wife is taking a photograph over the edge.
I smile.
I can see my house from here.