I was filled with concrete joy to be in my beautiful park this morning. It looked different and more alive since I saw it last, when there was still snow coating the roads and the fields. There was change, too. I’m not usually a sound sleeper, but for some reason I missed the storm that hit Brooklyn on Saturday night and downed dozens of trees in the park. At the top of Lookout Hill, branches were lying askew across the paths and I could see the jagged edges of the breaks where solid tree-trunks came crashing to the ground. I saw the morning all around me, through the living trees, and over the trees that were alive but not for long. Oh, and there was green grass everywhere, and tiny mushrooms and crocuses emerging through patches of ivy. I saw a forsythia bush, which reminded me of a strange and compelling dream a friend related to me in which all whips were forsythia branches, and all wounds were simply streaks of yellow pollen.
Also, I found a shell on my hill this morning, which I carried home in my pocket.
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