Many are the ways of dwelling in a city. One way is to dwell in its undeveloped corners, in its unchanging buildings, its extensive parks. They write their own narratives, unfolding in silence, hewing to their own sense of community and time.
A nearly lifeless brown wood sleeps in a foggy haze, wisely indifferent to the human tempo. It labors at the production of color, a touch of red, of olive or lime, a cellular miracle requiring many weeks’ time. The plants grind away, motionlessly straining to put forth their first leaves and buds.
Wrens and ducks move quietly about, letting forth the occasional twitter and flutter. The wood is full of mud and water, a paradise bursting with worms and seeds. The snow and ice have lifted at last, unveiling a feast in the ground, plants, and water.