the city is a living, breathing creature:

the vendor in his miniscule hutch, hawking his wares to the world near the corner of st. marks and third avenue, a stereo blasting a variety of hip-hop, soul, reggae, and r&b, cheerfully greeting passers-by even in the dead of a bitter winter.

the sound of cranes lifting panes of steel above cooper union’s new building.

the screech of tires over roads peppered with potholes and black ice.

the roar of voices simultaneously pouring into and out of cell phones, making human connections via aural and visual means, and preserving touch for more intimate occasions.

the small, brief puffs of smoke from coffee cups, those made of paper emblazoned with logos of companies known for their budget-conscious bent, and others made of steel and washable, refillable, because everybody is on a budget and the mta is raising the fares again.

seeing a woman with a cane try to maneuver a slippery, icy sidewalk on a cold, rainy, winter evening, and watching as a man stops and offers her his arm and his help, and patiently guides her across the way closer to where she needs to be, and where danger is less.

the city is alive, and breathing.