The brown and crispy Ocean Avenue entrance to Prospect Park, the one I used for that year of cleaning litter in the woods, reached by the Q train, revealed these tiny white flowers like small butterflies resting on the arched branches of the winter honeysuckle shrubs. Why are sprays of it not sold at flower stores? I'd buy a bunch and roll around in the sweet lemon scent for nights on end.
Nearby, outside the fortified court buildings, the Cornelian cherry had broken bud. As I turned from taking its picture with my cheap telephoto I came face to face with a cop, scrutinising me. Flowers, I lisped... He smiled vacantly. A benign expression reserved for the half cracked and unpredictable.
Who is the man that breaks into loud and raspy voiced song, channeled from his earpieces, no doubt, as he cycles fast past our block at 3am in the morning? It's been happening for a week. I don't hear him coming or going, so I take it personally. To aggravate my leaping into wakefulness, I only catch a few seconds of the song and lie for minutes trying to place it.
I am dying to water him. Should I lie in wait, shivering in the dark?
It is very provocative.
Central Park Spring, 31 March 2009
Battery Park, 26 March 2011