It's a shame, every winter, autumn actually, Bryant Park transforms into a sea of merchants. They hawk shea butter, caramel corn, artisenal cloaks, in tiny heat generating huts. As if the denizens of mid town were starving for a place to eat or some nice gifts. Somehow in the middle of the block long park an ice skating rink is produced. Even if I had a lunch break would I go there now? I went last year, fell into a light trance watching families skate in small circles. A glass cafe is erected, constructed in a way to signify temporary elegance. I miss the grass; murky, dead and curling over itself with whorls of winter frost. The London Plane trees (Platanus acerifolia), that populate the north and south edge of the park are the same found in the Jardin des tulieries in Paris. Where did the accordion player go? Are their services unwanted in winter? Would you not hear the din of their sweet melancholy tune over ice making machine? I think about these things on my days off.