The smell of autumn fills Prospect Park this morning. A heavy rain brought down leaves from trees that have not yet fully changed color. On the ground, a slippery carpet covers the jogging path around the park. The feet of many runners trample the wet leaves in a giant, urban winepress of sorts, sending a scent of oak up the nostrils of breathless joggers who make the five mile loop daily.
Acorns fall as hail from a thundercloud. Squirrels scamper too and fro, grabbing frozen morsels of asexual reproduction. In New York City there are black squirrels—the most beautiful of creatures, especially compared to the grey ones that are so common.
The black, bushy-tail rodents cross the paths of joggers, yet few take the time in their minds while they run in deep, reflective meditation, to wonder if perhaps it is bad luck for a black squirrel to cross one’s path.