Sirens on Sunday 4

 

“So, I saw this fowl in Central Park,” she said. “It perched on the wrist of a man strangely clad and standing on a crag.” When I overheard this, I had to eavesdrop, especially since other conversations at this party had turned mostly to football. “His attire suggested he’d just come ashore, after sailing in limbo for ages, really centuries.”

She then told of the fowl taking flight, luring her southward. “And as it flew, it changed. I can’t explain how or why. It just did.” The speaker took a sip from her drink and continued. “When next I approached within a dozen yards, the fowl seemed fully a siren, right there on Fifth Avenue. It possessed a bizarre liminality, with its rollerblades and ornament replacing talons and wings.”

 

“I followed her–or it–on a migratory path

 

alighting hither

 

and yon, sporting with and dazzling my fellow fotografers

 

and all others whose ears were free of deafening wax, bringing ecstasy to those who noticed. So keep your eyes open and moving and you too may see some Carnival sirens as they migrate through, all befeathered, soon.”

The speaker then finished her drink, excused herself, and hurried out the door.

“But, wait . . . ,” I said, following, but she had vanished into the night, as if she herself had sprouted wings.

By the way, one of the most popular search terms leading people to stumble upon this blog is ecstatic , which is how I’ll feel come next equinox. Thanks, ecstatic one.

All fotos, Will Van Dorp