There is a little park in Queens where you can sit on a bench by the water amid some trees. The river laps gently against large close-chocked stones which form more of a barrier than a beach, and between each passing whining roar of planes mere seconds from landing, you can hear the soft irregular chiming of a marker buoy rocking on the water.
At dusk you can see only the very highest lights of Manhattan's famous skyline, gathered and huddled and low against the horizon, dulled by mist and distance. River rats scuffle and stop, wary, at the fringes of the pathways, hesitant. As the darkness deepens in the shadows of the trees and the light of the landing planes is pushed before them through cloud, fireflies spot the gloom with rising flashes of amber.
And it is peaceful there.
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