North Conservatory Garden at Central Park
The soft wind rustles the leaves of the unyielding forces of nature that bow down to mother nature herself, tugging a few of the leaves loose and sending them beyond the iron gates of the park. She lifts and carries away the sweet melodic voices of the children chattering and the birds carrying out an ancient tune to the far-nether regions of the garden. She causes the serene façade of the water to ripple, destroying the illusion of the sunbathed iron-and-stone giants. Tumbling over the shrubs and immaculately cut grass that alternates in a pattern: dark, light, dark, light…the wind rustles the hair of a mother, a tourist, a child, a person simply being illuminated by the estate. She leaves her mark on the oasis, pulsating with life.
