Sky Highway

This has always been one of my favorite little bits of writing ever. The kind of thing that makes me challenge my confidence in the hegemony of visual arts as emotive works. From the New Yorker, but no idea what issue now, who wrote it, etc. Just found it in a box of stuff, haven't seen it for years. Text is:

SKY HIGHWAY On West 11th Street, a block and a half from the river, there's a garage with an electric sign hanging outside--it is a rectangle of orange with a strip of blue at the bottom underlining the word "PARK." Sometimes when you're walking toward the river to catch the light in the minutes just after sunset, the sign's colors exactly match the sky's. A strip of orange still burns at the horizon, and the blue of the heavens sweeps back overhead, turning deeper as the day turns to the night that has already fallen in the city behind you. The effect is so gorgeous you nearly hate it for being so fleeting. You want to tell the earth, Stop. Hold it. Back up. Pull in here. We've even got a place for you to park.

Appears to still be there. Load this and wait for street view to populate. If not, follow the directions in the original article. Anyone in the area can go see if the effect still holds.