I left our laundry going roundandroundandround a block away from home, and walked south through Marcus Garvey* Park. It has some nice old trees. I didn't linger on the hilltop in the middle - it was empty apart from two men drinking on a stone wall and I still don't know the 'hood well enough to have automatic radar. I'm still programming it, and it said turnaround. I scanned trees as I walked down, thinking about mushrooms, always curious about what grows where. The ground was so dry it was dusty.
[Earlier, I called this McCarren Park. Which is in Brooklyn. Call me sleep-deprived.]
Leaving the fallen maple leaves I continued straight south, on these high reaches of 5th Avenue, and within ten minutes was at the top of Central Park, whose northern limit is 110th Street.
Here, ladies were collecting stinky gingko nuts. I suppose I should clean and roast them just once. The nuts. Not the ladies.
The woods here are a lot like the Ramble, but I don't know them at all. I didn't have much time to linger or travel far - the drying laundry called - but caught sight some of some young oyster mushrooms near the path. A good sign. Chipmunks whistled, birds scratched amongst the dry leaves.
On my way out, on a narrow side path down a hill, I passed what had to be a prostitute and two johns, waiting for me to pass, with a third man keeping watch, looking away from me, down the path. I approached him so quietly that he jumped in surprise as I passed and I could not resist saying, without expression: "Boo."
The colours will be very good in a week. I'll take the Frenchman to go and see them.