Some walks stay in mind only as long as my feet pound the
pavement; they vanish as soon as I walk in the door. Others are unforgettable.

It was winter and the moon was rising.  The city was spread out as it always is,
midtown to the left, lower Manhattan to the right, New York Harbor at our feet,
the ferries and tugs like insects skimming water. The day was ending and the
great city was dressing for dinner.

In those days the Brooklyn Bridge talked back to walkers, as
cars drove across the metal grid of the roadway below, and being out there in the middle was truly to be suspended — not on earth at
all but flying above it with towers of stone and cables of steel and something
else that can’t be named or explained.

Later that year I stood with thousands as music blared and fireworks
exploded to celebrate the span’s 100^th birthday. And in the years
since I’ve often strolled from Manhattan to Brooklyn. But when I think
of the bridge, it’s that walk I remember most — the gathering darkness, the sighing
of tires on steel, the real world falling away.