Ode to Central Park

I'm back in Central Park.  It's a haven.  It's the breath of New York City.  The sun is warm and bright, penetrating my skin.  I'm wearing shorts, liberation of the legs.

The towering fountain with a sculpted angel on top ripples out a steady stream of fresh white waterfall noise.
A saxophone player mixes his melodies in with the fountain's.
A french-speaking group throws coins over their shoulders into the pond like they do at Trevi fountain...un-duex-trois!
An Indian couple stares confused at a group of blond american moms doing cross-fit lunges and jumps in spandex.
A Russian family is posing for a picture in front of the pond, the camera man in front of the pond, the man barks in attempts to get the toddler to smile...success.
Behind them, a woman with short white hair paddles herself in a row boat, pondering.
A black woman whose hair is many tight braids wrapped in a glorious head-sized bun resting straight above her lounges smooth by the water.

A Jewish duo.

There are two types of people in this square.  One, a steady stream of passers-by, most admire the fountain, pose for a few photos, then continue on their way.  The runners would fit into this category.  The other type is sitting around the perimeter on a perpetual stone bench, they are like me, observing.  What would happen if everyone was observing?  If we all noticed that everyone else was seeing?  All looking around at each other, an energy shift, a new connection?  What then?

The melodies of a quartet singing remind me of a group I heard last time I was here a month ago, in fact, it is that group  Such soul, the crowd applauses with gusto.
A bearded man scratches the ears of his white puppy.  An elderly Chinese couple stretches in a distinctly Chinese manner.
A french man serenades his woman with a french song while oaring the row boat.  They lean in for a kiss, his beret touching her forehead.
A pretty Londoner, Olivia, looks at her map, trying to decide what she'll see in her last two hours in New York before her flight home.
A short woman walks by very slowly, very intentionally, soaking in everything around her, completely absorbed.  Something about her energy touches me, expanding my heart and presence, raising my awareness.

Hard to see, but this guy was texting and driving.

It's spring in the park, the trees are bursting forth green leaves and pink blossoms.  The tulips, daffodils and bleeding hearts are full, waving their vibrant colors and textures in the breeze.  It's spring for the birds-chirping, and it's spring for the people-smiling, faces blooming.

I am rejuvenated once again in Central Park.  Central Park, you slice of heaven.  It doesn't seem possible that in the middle of this, many times, calloused, distracted, hustling city, there would be a fortress of life and abundance sprawling for 150 city blocks.  Central Park, you give me hope.  It's as though there were some portal at your boarder that transformed everyone who walked in.  It's as though you are an alternate universe shinning light in the darkness.

I have now outstayed everyone at this plaza.  To a new space I shall wander.

From a castle, looking over turtle pond.  (Which lives up to it's name.)