The river looks like the sea today, a branch of the sea, a sound. A blue jay calls. A jet sounds. The wind blows in the trees. Crickets vibrate. The jay trills. A bird flies by, squawking. A down comforter of clouds settles on the slate blue hills. The river is steel grey and in between is a thick lozenge of dark forest, lit in places as the float of clouds inches by. A freight train passes south. The mountains recede far into the distance, like images repeating smaller and smaller in a mirror. The rails are brown, and the wetland grasses are tan and green and move in the wind, like “amber waves of grain.” I am here at the Hudson, but I’m reminded of the golden light of the Sound in eastern Connecticut, the salt marsh and the rail line from New Haven to Westerly, the grey rippling Sound and the trees beginning to turn, my wool plaid skirt the color of the trees, brown, moss green, and amber, with flecks of the colors of fall flowers, two shades of lavender aster, and goldenrod, and my cream sweater the color of Queen Anne’s lace.