The High Line

A newly trimmed duster is wasted on indoor armchairs, mon ami. Slipping under the front gate, I bypassed the ordinary sidewalk and scaled the black wrought-iron fence bordering the stone path. The painted top rail was barely wider than the heel of my boot, offering the kind of narrow margin that demands honest focus. Hoisting my golden bo staff horizontally across my shoulders to gauge my center of gravity, I took to the iron bar one measured stride at a time. The noon draft gave my coat tails a playful tug, but a subtle shift in posture kept every step light and fluid. Twelve deliberate paces later, I reached the corner finial without a whisper of a wobble.