Second Bloom

The roses in the Heather Garden are nearing the end of their second summer bloom (the first occurred in late May). They cascade like bubbles of pink champagne down the limbs of the bushes. I know this is a cliche, but I can't help myself. I have to stop and smell them. I have to bend low, putting my nose close to catch their delicate scent (unlike the artificiality of store bought roses, when they smell at all). Early yesterday morning, while walking my dog, I saw a flash of red almost buried in the bushes. It was a cardinal, on his return trip South. I had seen him in early spring, when he was heading North for summer. I stared and he stared back. I wanted to say, You can't hide from me. Your red announces you like the surging energy of unreciprocated love. He remained still and peaceful, unaware that the emerald leaves offered no camouflage to him.

Cicadas

The trees in Fort Tryon have come alive with sound. The constant round-and-round rattle of cicadas fills the ears, like thousands of maracas shaken by phantom mariachis who have taken up residence in the trees. The cicadas fill the trees in the Linden Terrace, and accompany me while I silently watch the sky burn with sunset. The cicadas muffle the whispered Russian and crescendos of Spanish from others enjoying the view. They form a constant backdrop to the drama of nature, a reminder that summer's abundance has neared its zenith. At the entrance to the park, a dead cicada lay on the ground, its fairy wings stretched delicate and vulnerable beneath it. I gathered the insect in leaves and brought it home, careful not to damage its wings. My nephew appreciates such creatures, and I saved it for him. It felt like I was saving summer.

Water Balloons

This summer is all about water: water falling from the sky (all summer long); water droplets filling the air with humidity; water flowing from public spouts in the playground where children in bathing suits cool off on hot, hot days. But especially, water in balloons. It's all the rage this summer. Children laugh conspiratorially in groups on the corner of 190th and Ft. Washington. They fill up the balloons at the drinking fountain just inside the entrance to the Heather Garden. Then they gang up on the vulnerable ones. The balloons, red, blue and yellow orbs, change shape like ameobas in the children's hands. The children unleash a barrage that arcs up and over the sidewalk, ending in a splishsplash on the pavement. Occasionally, the balloons hone in on a target (a little brother or older sister), and the park fills with squeals of laughter.

Butterflies

The butterflies have returned to the heather garden. They chase each other in pairs or flit about singley, lighting up the garden with a mosaic of colored glass. The lavender is abuzz with overgrown bumblebees. They hide amongst the purple flowers. You have to be careful when running your hand over them to catch the scent. The garden is nearing its peak with layer on layer of green. Purple and yellow flowers contrast intermittent bursts of red, and the roses have been blooming uninterrupted for weeks. The tiger lillies have pounced on the hill near the subway stop, turning it into a field of orange. Children stand with boisterous expectation at the Mr. Softee icecream truck just outside the subway stop, then continue into the park with glee, icecream quickly melting and dripping down their chins. I wish these days could last forever.

Early Summer?

New York is refusing to allow summer in. For weeks we have had clouds and rain. Forecasters have predicted thunderstorms for this evening, and the air sags with humidity. But yesterday, the sun made an appearance, accompanied by a fresh breeze straight off the ocean. I sat near the Heather Garden, and listened to a free concert: a string quartet with the Hudson as the backdrop. Pink roses spray painted the hillside behind me, and I laid on the grass gazing thankfully at the clear blue sky. That evening, the opera man, his denim shirt still stretching over a magnificent beer belly, sat on the hillside in his fold-up chair. As he drank his nightly wine, opera followed the quartet, cascading down the hillside to the Hudson.