Brooklyn Bridge Blue Night Countdown Timer

The cables of the Brooklyn Bridge were strung with points of light that night, a long bright necklace running up to the tower and over, and the whole span was reflected in the East River so completely that for a moment the picture had two skies. I was on the Manhattan side, down by the water, past the point where the tourists thin out and the fishermen set up their chairs. The city behind the bridge was a wall of windows in every shade of white and yellow, none of them quite the same, which is the thing about New York at night that photographs always flatten and never really catch. A tugboat went under the span and its wake tore the reflection into ribbons and then the river put itself back together, slowly, like it had all the time in the world. The wind came off the water cold. A man beside me was fishing off the bulkhead and had caught, as far as I could tell, absolutely nothing, and seemed entirely at peace with that. I stayed until my hands stopped working well enough to change a lens, which is the only reliable clock I have ever found for when to go home.