The fountain is off, and the grassy lawns are white with a thick layer of frost, as the morning sun slowly melts it away.
It’s clearly off-season here in Washington Square Park, offering a quiet solitude rarely available in warmer months.
The vast concrete central slab is clear and vacant, just the occassional bundled-up dog walker and passerby.
Even the homeless vagrants, usual mainstays napping on the surrounding granite benches, are nowhere to be seen.
Nobody sunbathes on the lawns.
A tiny greyhound in a sweater tippy-taps past, scaring off a flock of pigeons.
A squirrel approaches me tentatively before quickly scurrying away.
I enjoy the scene while it lasts, Dostoevsky waiting in my lap to be read, but focus escaping me.