the great leslie

My father and I saw an egret in Central Park on Saturday, near the entrance at 103rd Street. He noticed it: a long-necked, almost prehistoric white bird hiding in the long branches of a weeping willow. I'd never seen an egret in the park before, and I think it has since moved on. I've noticed a lot of nature going around the city in the past few weeks. And it's always refreshing to observe nature in the concrete jungle.

I talked to my mom on Sunday, but I forgot to tell her about the egret. So I called her back. This pleased her very much I think, especially since I called back only to tell her about the bird. She likes birds.

While my dad and I were having a bourbon at a dingy bar near my apartment, he told me a story about my great-grandmother, Gia, who lived in New York in the early part of the twentieth century. She'd been given tickets to a show — the Met? the Ballet? — and so spent a night enjoying the arts. But when she returned home, she started crying and crying because there are just so many people in New York.

There were so many then, there are so many now. And so we weep. Or drink. Or walk in the park.