The western edge of Prospect Park only appeared deserted on a rainy morning in late September. This is Brooklyn; there's always somebody around.
In the playground, a lanky young person in striped socks and ponytail swung high and low through the downpour—whether with careless cheer or grim determination, I couldn't tell.
Steps from Prospect Park West, a loner with a backpack seemed very alone indeed.
Closer to Bartel Pritchard Circle, what I first took for a cardiac resuscitation turned out to be a trainer stretching her prostrate client.
The rain beat down the first ranks of the color guard, although it still felt like summer.
Rainy day people always seem to know when it's time to call
Rainy day people don't talk, they just listen till they've heard it all
Rainy day lovers don't lie when they tell 'ya they've been down like you
Rainy day people don't mind if you're cryin' a tear or two.
--Gordon Lightfoot
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