I love New York parks. I think my affection stems from the blend of green and gray, the mixture of rural and urban. Trees reach high into the air, almost blotting out nearby apartment buildings, while the screams and laughter of children playing is just enough to mask the ever-present noise of traffic.

I sat in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park yesterday and watched the entire world go by. It seemed like it might be one of the last nice afternoons of fall, and families were out in force to catch a little sunshine, complete with frisbees, footballs and those ubiquitous scooters.

The roads through the park were full — not clogged, just full — with skaters, joggers and more bike-riders than you could shake a stick at. (Not that I didn’t try; I just couldn’t shake a stick at all of them. That didn’t distract from the pure and gentle pleasure I had in shaking a stick at the ones I could.)

On the sidewalk, a father and son, both Orthodox Jews clad in black, stopped passersby to see if they were Jewish. If they were, the boy would respond by blowing the shofar — an instrument traditionally made from a ram’s horn — to mark the beginning of the new year. Like the mixture of gray buildings peeking over green trees, the contrast between the somberly dressed duo and the colorfully clad joggers who swirled around them was a mixture of differences that made the park seem even more alive.