Take the G Line

I knew that I could take the G line to the market-on-the-bridge, repurposed after the days of the trains had left it rusting but structural enough for farmer's markets with produce in bushel-baskets and vendors hawking fish and mussels. So I took the G-line (black on the subway map), intending originally to stop at the market but then deciding to take it all the way to the end, a station I'd never been before, "Science Park."

So I get off, and it's a bunch of statues in metal and stone and marble and stainless steel in a plaza where moss is growing between the stones, and a broad avenue runs up to the Science Museum where the lights on the front are still burning but inside it's dark: it's late. The clouds are scudding blue over the moon, which is full.

And I sit there and listen to the wind and look at the clouds and the shapes their shadows make echoed in the sculptures' lines, and turn my head to the right: there's a 4-piece string quartet. The cellist is tuning. "Yeah," he says at my open mouth and my questions, "we practice here every Wednesday night except when it rains. Not too many come to hear us though."

Bach and Pachelbel's canon and scudding clouds, and me the only audience, until I wake.