Look at them. They stopped traffic on the north side of an always busy bridge over Newtown Creek down the street from my apartment, in the industrial district. It was one of those days that are out of sync, or rather charged with a frenetic, coarsened interrelationship — you bump into people on the street, the draw bridge lifts up just as you're approaching, late and hasting. And some geese, interceding. I wasn't quick enough on the draw to get them when they had both lanes, but the situation is clear enough. The kind of day that opens Moby Dick: Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off — then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. Barring such opportunities for departure, at least we’re granted some interruption.