Two friends and I chilled yesterday on the big rolling green of Prospect Park near Grand Army Plaza. The day was sunny and warm, with an increasing sheen of clouds that made the quality of light like that softened sun that happens during a California wildfire.
We sat on the grass and looked at the scene of mixed groups of people — I love Brooklyn for its diversity — picnicking, playing footie and volleyball and enjoying each other’s company. It looked like a tableau from that crappy kid’s magazine High Life, which we grew up on. I mentioned that, and we laughed, but it made it a little sentimental, because the scene was indeed picture-book perfect.
The green trees were seething all around with sap and leaves — all the longing for energy stored up during the hungry winter. The clouds closed in and long rich thunder began to rumble from distant corners. Finally the skies opened and flashed. We ran back to the Grand Army Plaza station — I had to go back to Manhattan and the two SF natives I was with, to Crown Heights. Lightening exploded in front of us on the plaza, near the arch and the fountain. Rain soaked us to the bone.
It was wonderful.