It is Sunday. A perfect Autumn afternoon, the sky is clear, the sun high, the winds temperate, neither damp nor chill. Walking through Prospect Park, A. and I have come upon a picnic for an extended family of cheerful locavores, three high school thespians rehearsing lines from a play by Shakespeare, and more than a few couples entwined like ivy. Two weeks ago around midnight I’d heard tribal drumming coming from this area of the park, it is among the most soulful of sounds: drums on the wind after dark.
A sudden shout. I turn and see a horse galloping at full speed. Chestnut, gleaming in the sunlight, the beast appears ruthless in the way that only an animal can. It escapes the bridle path, a saddle but no rider on its back. Those nearest scream as the mad horse crashes into the woods and disappears.
drumming heart of
unforgotten destination —
like Whitman, persists.