On a weekend just after Christmas, everyplace we went, the world seemed to be breathing a languid sigh of relief from bustle and pressure. The Grand Army Plaza Greenmarket had a few vendors, but crowds were sparse; I bought some little rutabagas and mesclun with fantasies of a fearfully healthy post-holiday diet. A fine mist cloaked everything, including the Long Meadow, giving it the look of Ireland.
The Meadowport Arch looked like a watercolor; one could hardly make out that some fool had tagged it with graffiti.
Atop the arch, the noble steeds of victory appeared to charge out of the clouds above the heads of the rutabaga-shoppers.
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