Humans’ demise, nature’s rise

During the pandemic, as humanity teetered on the edge of demise, the rest of the natural kingdom appeared to be on the rise. At least that’s the way it looked in the parks of the Upper West Side of Manhattan. 

As the pandemic flattened and people emerged from lockdown, the great lawns grew intensely, surreally green. Gardens bloomed in brighter-than-normal profusions that lingered longer on the stem than usual; deep into autumn, new blossoms continued to erupt. Throughout the summer and early fall, cardinals and scarlet tanagers flashed their brights, boldly posing like models for photographs. Chipmunks, once rarely seen in New York City, scampered across the dusty paths of Central Park just missing sandaled feet. In Riverside Park, obese squirrels, bellies hanging over their fleshy thighs, strode confidently up to pedestrians, rose on their haunches like dogs, and begged for treats. Rats the size of spaniels sunned themselves on the paving stones of the upper pedestrian walkway in broad daylight. Raccoons by the half dozen scaled the vertical stone retaining walls at twilight and fingered the French fries left as offerings on the coping. Later they could be seen waddling along the side streets toward the trashcans of Broadway. Rumors trickled upriver from the harbor that humpback whales were breaching in the Hudson.

Weirdest was the daily sight of motionless human beings, seemingly paralyzed mid-stride, gathered in clusters, small dogs clutched close, faces turned to the sky, as though awaiting an alien abduction or the Rapture—or should I say Raptor? For if you followed their bewitched gaze, you’d see red-tailed hawks, peregrine falcons, bald eagles, or the revered and much-remarked-upon barred owl, soaring and wheeling, predators in search of prey. 

And like ancient ruins crumbling and overgrown with weeds, the city’s parks looked like the remnants of a lost civilization.

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