In New York: closing the day on the Gates

Is it all that I can write about? Today, yes. The park burst at the Gates. Pleats and skirts and billowing sheaths of fabric, still at times, flouncing and puffing up, only to settle again.

I did otherwise occupy myself. At the Metropolitan, I watched the two visitors doing stretching exercises in the empty modern art section (most were strolling among gates, the rest were at MoMA). I would catch my breath among a different set of colors, but only for a minute.

I also spend a few hours at the National Arts Club on Gramercy Square, where someone near and dear to me was singing this afternoon.

But I kept going back to Central Park. In the afternoon, and then again in the evening, I was as much focused on the people as on the gates themselves. And the light, of course, as it moved from morning pale to afternoon bold and eventually to the dark, helped only by the lamps and the tall buildings on the perimeter, and still the gates danced and played with the strollers. Thousands and thousands of strollers. And me.