The mysterious clearings on the southern end of Prospect Park are larger and more open since Sandy, but have lost none of their air of remoteness and melancholy. Stumps are everywhere, although the park has done an amazing job at picking up the deadfall.
Speaking of mystery, what means this message carved on one of the storm's survivors? I took it as an omen, and looked down as I scuffed through the leaves.
The world below is this guy's pantry.
A trail of rose petals led to the lakeside, where a lone mom and her baby watched the ducks.
It led to the scene of a recent celebration involving "Crazy Stallion" malt liquor and this evocative tableau. Latex and a feather...how saucy, and also, in December, how nippy.
No thin ice yet, but it's coming; if the world really is getting warmer, thin ice may be the only kind we'll get, ever.
When I entered the park by the Peristyle, I looked down and found this amputated rose. Then the petals later...but I couldn't figure out what it meant (unless perhaps St. Therese was "friending" and "poking" me like the overage teenager that she is). I left the rose on a bench, to mystify someone else on a cloudy afternoon.
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