I like going on night runs; there is something to the shadows that hover, and the ephemeral glow of fireflies. New York is moist in the summer, and the days reign with the anxiety of minds chasing mirrors. Their faces are predictable, endless. When I run at night, lamplights are the moon and shadows are tides. There is a wild mystery to it, a primordial longing it attends to. I run by listless, greasy men, overweight and smoking on their stoops; a grin circling their cigarette, serenading into a cell phone. Women quietly push strollers, their dyed hair like a sleepy yellow storm. Tonight, I ran close to a tree and placed my foot inches away from a crouching cat. I wonder, why it didn't jump, or move. It was hidden in the shadow of a tree root; city trees, have roots unlike any other. What is usually hidden beneath us is forced to the surface in a manic wrestling match with concrete. Consequently, the roots boil over the prescribed little square and instead grow horizontally, pushing up and breaking open the sidewalk; allowing kittens shelter, I suppose. In the words of Philip Selznick, "Man has surrounded himself with his own Image."
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