When we figured the sun to be at its warmest, and tempting fate with a postponement of Milo's nap, the Paoletti-Richardson family headed north on the A train to Central Park to wander through The Gates.

Even Milo, normally transfixed by such immediate demands for his attention as a squirrel, another child's stroller toys, or his own blue mittens, looked past the swings, the crowds and the trees, with an "Ohh, wowww."

One of many that Charles captured.

It was the same Sunday afternoon in the park, and a totally other afternoon. It was sunny, there were oodles of walkers, runners, bikers and strollers. There was Milo's favorite slide and several runny-nosed companions-in-sand-box-crime. There were dogs and old women in fur coats and street-savvy musicians. Mama would've given a lot for a latte (and the gloves she left back home). Milo played, looked up, looked out, played more, and ultimately fell asleep in his "terrarium" (stroller encased in clear plastic, pointed toward the sun, an art project all its own).

There was just bigness, a breath-taking amazement at the endless scale of the project. The numbers and crowds of island-inhabitants and tourists from near and far, who set out for a walk under the gates, who decided to spend this Sunday interacting with art. As words go, "Ohh, wowww," work as well as any other. Peace, cold, sun, air, motion, and blowy curtains of buddhist monks' robe-colored saffron.

... There is a tendency among city monks to wear saffron...

Just another afternoon in New York? If only.