A Short Glide, A Zero Gravity Moment

In Orderly fashion, in pairs or alone, skaters take to the languid glide in clockwise rhyme, and heaven shine down does it ever seem like the greatest stunt we've managed. A slow-going circle of bundled sticks, gleefully entranced by every allusive push towards freedom from the doldrums of friction. Skating on ice! Knives on boots, tied to feet, attached to thin legs thinly clad, attached to bodies layered like puffy onions, attached to smiles wide and warm; so many smiles, so warm it's a wonder the ice remains firm. Some of these revelers traverse the plain with ease, on a single blade - what strong, thick ankles they have. Others shake and stammer, stuttering forward awkwardly, crippled by their tools and well aware of the distance from head to toe - but oh how they manage to keep at it. I pray those cripples persevere and enroll the pleasure of effortless gliding before they give up. All this for a spectator to consider, plus the serene backdrop of Central Park's model nature and a Manhattan skyline hit smack in the nose by the sun's rays. And a warm coffee. And friends come from afar, and a camera to keep my words from the burden of painting their own picture. I'd call this a weightless moment, and I'd advise you to agree.

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