Already, so many leafless trees! Several days of stiff winds have seen to that.
Hardy cyclists and joggers still abound, but I'm not one of them. The onset of winter makes me more ornery with each passing year; like the cats being crammed into their carriers for a trip to the vet, I set up futile resistance. No way out but through.
Well, one way out, eventually. I stopped by the Friends Cemetery, whose plain markers are less obscured by foliage now. Quakers have been resting in peace there since before Prospect Park was built around them; the snows of winter have fallen and melted on the earliest residents since the 1820s.
Nestled outside the cemetery fence, a shopping cart—not, one hopes, an omen for the economy.
Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud;
And after summer evermore succeeds
Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold:
So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
Sirs, what’s o’clock?
The Second Part of King Henry the Sixth, Act II, Scene IV
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