I’m daring myself to stop and take it all in.
The Dalmatian walking his fellow, passing by me on the ranger green bench I share with an elderly Chinese man.
The various individuals and groups parked across the lawn of the park sprawled with expressions of muted concentration, their bodies and blankets making different shapes and colors that dot the grass.
A lone teal sweatshirt hooded blonde, pausing at one group of brown clad youth, as she crosses the park.
The occasional “SMACK!” of a football being tossed.
The little dog now – a large sized Chihuahua – and its couple, taking the path of the Dalmatian.
A toddler pushing an empty stroller in the shade of the grand trees that envelope Washington Square Park.
There are two random guitarists, each at different ends of the envelope of the park, each strumming away as they sit on the edge of their respective benches, entertaining a small crew around them. They are both older men, one Caucasian with the whitest hair and yellowest shirt. One African-American with the best fedora in the neighborhood.
I can hear the picking of the Yellow Shirt Man.
A few hide in the shade. Many soak in the sun.
Chinese is a chorus I hear nearby, with a pack of grandmothers and two babes on a bench in a dimly sunned spot between the grand trees.
I am in love. With North Beach.
A flock of pigeons soar by and keep winding their way around the little park.
Soccer is the new game being introduced near the Fedora picker.
All of this in the middle of a weekday, that when you blink too quickly more closely resembles a modern day Seurat’s Sunday afternoon.
And it is warm in the sun, and just rightly cool in the shade, and lively and quiet and peaceful and energizing all at once.
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