The Tax

I.
February

On Sundays, I often run the Hudson. We live six miles south of the George Washington Bridge, and I tick each mile off, unimpeded by stop lights and heinous swarms of tourists. Up through Harlem and into Washington Heights, the pavement gives way to soft trail, train tracks rising parallel to the path. If you keep running, the Empire State Trail will drop you as far west as Buffalo. As far north as the Canadian border. 

Just a few weeks ago, semifractal icebergs bobbled across the water. The wind shook through my vest. Now, impossibly, I wait for the goslings. Soon, the riverbanks will shelter their families, hiding tufts of yellowbrown fuzz in the reaching grass. As much as I despise grown Canadian geese, with the hissing and the dramatics and the omnipresent olive excrement, I pause to photograph the careful way they guard their babies. Willing them into adolescence. I marvel at the lines they carve in the water; one adult in front, one picking up the rear. They swim the waters of the Mohican, the Wappinger, the Lenape, the Schaghticoke. The waters of Henry Hudson and, improbably, US Airways Flight 1549. 

The geese are oblivious to human history.

They fear dogs, and hawks. Coyotes.

II.
April

After the attack on Temple Israel, the Board of Trustees of my New York City synagogue voted to hire an armed guard. There was no specific threat. It was simply an acknowledgement of the times. A synagogue across town installed bollards on the sidewalk. 

During the school year, our classrooms are filled with the merriment of childhood. The discord of toys.  On Saturday mornings, I sometimes daven with a woman who survived Kristallnacht. At the time, she was a few weeks shy of turning three. 

III.
Early May

My city has a subreddit devoted to local running. At any given time, you can reach thousands of like-minded, somewhat anonymous people. We mostly post complaints. Running clubs taking up too much space. Running clubs meandering in the bike lane. Running clubs oblivious to living in a civil society. When will they turn on the goddamn fountains? It’s May, for Chrissakes.

The other day, one user posted a dire warning. “Aggressive run club on [the West Side Highway] this morning, leaders tried to bite me.” 

The attached picture, of course, was of two adult Canadian geese, sheltering four babies. They were hanging out on the paved path, down in lower Manhattan. Unshaded. Easy to spot.

The following Monday, three men are shot and killed at the Islamic Center of San Diego. As was the case at Temple Israel, more than one hundred children were saved by brave men who engaged the shooters. Unlike in Michigan, Amin Abdullah, Mansour Kaziha, and Nadir Awad paid for their courage with their lives. 

IV.
Late May.

This weekend, it rained. Almost malevolently, washing away most of the holiday. Since the winter weather started just after Halloween, a flooded Memorial Day weekend felt deliberately unkind. 

Still, out the door I went, into the deluge. Although the Hudson path travels alongside the highway for almost two miles, I hardly notice the traffic in good weather. When it rains, though…  man. Cars veer into the highway’s potholes and embankments, creating a splash zone not unlike a log flume. Over and over, I found myself doused with, well, I don’t know what.

After my third mile, there they were, blocking my way forward. Mother goose, father goose, four little goslings. Just as water-logged as I, waddling in a tiny parade of its own import, looking for the shelter of the rocky shore.

I paused my watch and waited.

Nobody hissed or tried to bite.

By the time I reached the bridge, I was soaked straight through. But my plan said nine miles, and I wasn’t even at seven. Up and over I went, reluctantly, rainclouds pressing on my shoulders. Past the New Jersey border, there’s a set of stairs that leads to the Palisades, and the cliffs that overlook the Hudson. 

About a decade ago, three people lost their lives there, in completely separate falls. Now, a stern sign warns: Cliffs And Steep Slopes Are Dangerous. I, a mildly disabled klutz, take quick measure of the muddy trail, and decide to turn around.

And then, no. A noise I half hear over the steady drizzle.  

Two deer slowly make their way towards me, grazing along the trail. I pull out my phone, because of course I pull out my phone, and snap photo after half-blurry photo of my magnificent friends. 8x zoom, 4x zoom, 2x zoom. 

“Hello,” I say, backing up.. 

“You’re safe with me.”