One of the smallest of Robert Moses' fifteen "vest-pocket parks" that abut the Prospect Expressway is the playground on 17th Street between Fifth & Sixth. Along the fence that separates the playground from the canyon of roaring traffic a succession of animals are set on their own journey. Protected or protectors, barred in by a modern world, or simply following a path older and deeper than the one beside them? They're a weather-beaten bunch, pock-marked with corrosion, coated with mismatched paint. A fox has been given a stain of a heart . An unknown hand has drawn in faces to several of the other animals, setting them ever more alive. There's magic in the metal creatures.
Nature endures in the least likely settings.