13 January 2017
Mellon Park
Late afternoon, approx. 35 degrees F
An insisting, tight breeze flares across Mellon Park, a reminder that it is January, after all. Yesterday brought rain and warm air like a damp breath across the city, but blue-gray skies have returned today. Cars scrape past on Fifth Avenue below me; a plane rockets overhead. The sun, smeared behind pale sky somewhere behind me, is setting, and here they come, the peppering of crows, hundreds, perhaps, cawing and dipping southwest. Some flap straightforward, set on their line of direction, while others dive and swoop like maple seeds. A band of frothy clouds streaks across the sky behind them, tapering to a feathered point.
Bracing, this wind, licking like ice across my fingertips. I am struggling to write, struggling to be in this moment, back against a chestnut tree at the top of the sloped park. Knobby knuckles and fingers of branches cup the biting wind above. I'm no good at this, sitting still. I come to know landscapes through movement: running, hiking, walking. I watch the last crow slip out of view and wish I could flicker black across the sky like faint words against pale blue paper. I chose this place for its viewpoint, a broader horizon and higher scope of sky, and I wonder what Pittsburgh looks like for the crows above. For a bird unhampered by the rise of buildings or gravity-bound congestion of roadways, how wild is a city?
Shiny dented chestnuts are strewn around me, hardened into winter. The grass, still miraculously green, shivers in the breeze as well. How tempting it is to draw from my numbing limbs completely and take in every detail, learn the contours of every sheet of bark or spiny husk of chestnut. But I'm pulled by this urgency, a chill drawing blood from my fingertips. An urgency to move—not to a warmer place, necessarily, but a warmer state. I don't want to curl into conservation of warmth; I want to spur my own muscles forward, lighting the flame inside.
A pair of dogs spin across the grass behind me, yapping shrilly. I watch their movements, their eyes each set on each other. My fingers have resolved to numbness, my writing a slanted scribble across the paper. The bare trees of the park reach into the fading sky like vessels into lungs, and I take a slow breath of the sharp air. Pumping wings of crows, bounding paws of terriers, chilling whistle of wind. I coax movement back into my stiff spine, push myself up against the sturdy chestnut trunk and feel, before the cold calls me home, the commitment of the tree, roots coiling in frost-hard earth, bare branches tracing the motion of crows.
Brr, reading this made me shiver! Your attention to detail was immersive, and it was like I was sitting next to you, feeling the bracing wind on my own skin.
ReplyDeleteI especially liked your attention to the crows, your description of their flight across Mellon Park, and your consideration of their thoughts. "For a bird unhampered by the rise of buildings or gravity-bound congestion of roadways, how wild is a city?" I would love to hear an answer.
Great work. Looking forward to reading more!
I'm glad we both share an investment in the crows of Pittsburgh, Sarah. I sensed in their restless flight a parallel restlessness in you. I wonder if you might later describe the park through a walk or run, find how your perception of it, and the city, might change.
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ReplyDeleteThe sensory description in this entry is palpable and evocative. Like Bethany noted, we are right there next to you, seeing through your eyes and feeling through your senses. I also loved the lyrical focus on language that is both precise and evocative. It wasn't part of the entry but I loved the definition of kerf you provided - that (like many parts of this entry) reads like a prose poem.
ReplyDeleteSitting still is a hard gesture, for all of us, these days. But I think you'll find great reward in teaching yourself and that your insights gleaned from the practice will likely be deeper for it.