Scenes from Irene

Irene has passed Washington, D.C., which is as far west of New York as it is south, and therefore only ever saw the storm’s liminal rain and winds. (This was enough to cause blackouts for millions of homes in the suburbs–including Steven Hayward’s–but so far as I can tell, proper D.C. never once lost electricity. It must have been the President’s slick subterranean hurricane command center, its electronic eye draping itself like a warm blanket over our vulnerable selves.)

Newspaper page-one headliners were the worst hit.

On the storm’s approach, the ailing Washington Monument stood stoutly. Like Cortéz. (Staring at the Atlantic and his men with a wild surmise, waiting to learn from Kanye West whether George Bush doesn’t care about conquistadors, either.)

The scene in the residential neighborhood of Dupont Circle.

The fancy farmers market this morn was not cancelled. I also learned that the farmers market accepts food stamps, which is nice.

And several trees lay down their lives.

All in all, it wasn’t bad, here in D.C.

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