This fall in my
neighborhood in brownstone Brooklyn when you direct your gaze upward there
seems to be more to see than usual at this time of year.
I don’t advise
this practice on unfamiliar urban streets, or when the pedestrian traffic
excites around school buildings and along the main thoroughfares.
But on a path toward
Prospect Park, a mid-morning route I know so well (every sidewalk abrasion and
gnarly tree pit) that I take with M and T (our coonhound-bloodhound mix), I
like to look up as I walk along.
Skeletal branches of ginkgo trees,
which lose their leaves like a grass skirt down slim hips, reveal bird nests touched by morning light.
Sky so blue it
makes your heart ache.
In the park
itself, the stands of London plane trees, scatters of dry leaves holding on like arthritic
fists, are naked beauties that restore the glory of what being white can be.
And, soon, the golden larch is
on fire. The one I like (at the eastern entrance to the Lullwater Bridge near
the Boathouse) is near aglow.
Get there, if you can, or the
equivalent place of calm in your neighborhood, and cast your eyes to the sky.
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