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wonderful to be a deer
Friday, April 12 2002
Spring has reached a magical liminal state in Prospect Park. The small trees near the forest floor are massing with not-yet-fully-unfurled leaves, each a freshly-minted copy still hot from the printer's plate of its chromosomes. They're so perfect and tender you just want to devour them. It must be wonderful to be a deer at this time of year.
Meanwhile the older trees of the canopy are still holding out for warmer weather. Perhaps its the wisdom of their years that tells them that terrible cold could still come. Perhaps it's just colder up there in the boughs away from the heat of the still-sunbaked leaves of the forest floor.
At the Vale of Cashmere fountains, there's a fat white man who often hangs out at a park bench with his even fatter Rotweilers. One is so fat that it has the body form of a pig. Though clearly spoiled rotten, there's a darkness lurking in the hearts and when Sally walks past they usually snarl at her. She's bold but not suicidal, and her normal course of action is to skamper past and then turn and taunt them from a safe distance.
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