April tangles her infant fingers in my hair, and I shift her on my hip to secure my hold about her. The air is cool and crisp. I cross the broad street, enter the park. Though I hurry, the two men – still deep in discussion – quickly outdistance me.
Brightly colored tents crowd the park’s perimeter. I duck and weave quickly along the sandy gravel path, through jugglers, musicians, tight-rope walkers and performers of all kinds, but the two men I pursue are soon swallowed by the crowd. I can no longer see them, doubt I can catch up with them. I slow my hectic pace, catch my breath within fluttering, tree-dappled shade, and coo in April’s ear.
Just ahead, I see a beautiful young woman dressed in green silk gown. A breeze plucks at her sleeve as she dips and arches to extend her arm, to release Tarot cards into the air, one after another. Improbably, the cards revolve above, suspended with their brethren. Craning my neck, I observe the cards – overlarge, nearly the size of placemats, their backs are decorated in Art Nouveau style, edged in gold and twined with vines and bright flowers. They are lovely, seemingly magic as they float overhead, catching light and stirring with breeze. Entranced, I turn slowly in place. I can only see the cards’ backs, not their faces. But as I continue to stare, I realize the cards hang from the surrounding trees by clear, filament threads. In no way does this realization diminish the magic of their effect.