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The sodden pages were splayed out on the bench below a Riverside Park Conservancy banner. I glanced up and down the promenade, hoping to alert the book owner. It was 7:15 a.m. on Sunday, July 16, and it was raining. The park was empty. Earlier, I had skimmed the Guardian and the Times, read Bill McKibben's latest Crucial Years piece, and checked the air quality, the expected heat, and the latest news on the devastating fires, heat waves, and floods the world over. My usual morning routine.
I had to get out ahead of the day's pollution, heat, and expected thunderstorms and away from my despair. I needed trees, birds, flowering shrubs, and I knew where to find them: Riverside Park, the wonderful miles-long park that runs along the upper western edge of Manhattan next to the Hudson River—a short walk from my apartment.