It’s a rite of fall, the apple.
I thought I was already experiencing the perfect fall day after a walk around Central Park’s reservoir.
Encircled with soft-rounded ablaze-in-color trees, framed by Manhattan’s elegant vertical mix of contemporary and pre-WW II buildings, the reservoir shimmered in perfect reflection of a mirror. True to the November timing, the park lamps were already lit. Yet the sun was still demanding that her light not be eclipsed just yet, showering all in great warmth and color. Lines of ducks as still as the water rested in formation. The fountain in the middle of it all, reminiscent of Geneva’s Jet d’Eau, was jutting upward with just the right amount of spray forming a perfect arc. The thick layers of muted colorful autumn woods just beyond the reservoir were alive with laughter as well as the clip clopping noise of a horse.