Sometimes I have a little story I'm dying to tell you but don't have quite the right photos to go along with it. Other times I have some pretty little photos I want you to see but nothing quite right to say along side them. Most of the time, even if I have both a nice story and some photos for you, the only way I can even write anything is to pretend like you're not reading this at all. Times like this, times like now, I tuck my head down and soldier on.
I was walking to the old train tracks along the border of Elmwood's property when I saw this truck parked. A glorious green little 70s baby, historic plates and a collection of turkey feathers gathered along the dash. Unlocked, windows down. Pretty much perfect.
I walked along the tracks until I reached the trestle and saw a pair of boys fishing down off the path. I blindly took some photos of the pond, just to have purpose for being there. One boy saw me and made his way up to say hello. We chatted for just a moment, something about the number of bugs and how the day's forecast had been wrong, no rain but just humid haze. He was a baby, but baby handsome, too, and in a way that was completely unaware of how many boys in Brooklyn romanticize a life like that. I turned and walked back along the tracks, happy to know that other people put turkey feathers along their dash, too.