Walking through New York's Central Park, it seems to fall into the gentle cracks of the steel forest. Morning light penetrates the forest, spreads powder and white brocade on the cherry blossom avenue, the wind is outdated petals fall, and the corners of the skyscraper soften into a background sound in the flower shadow. The city code on the bench is the most moving. The cold chair was stroked by the fingertips, and the short text on the nameplate hid the New Yorker's temperature: "Give my wife Carol, because she loves Central Park, and I love her" - the separation of life, the young encounter, the mother and son bonding, all condensed into a dew in the wood grain. When high school students spread out books and laughed on the sheep lawn, and when the reciting of Shakespeare’s poems drifted from Cherry Hill to the lake, the park became an emotional resonant box, full of human narratives that transcended language. In the afternoon, I closed my eyes in the Ramble Forest area. Bird song and stream sound woven into natural white noise, suddenly understand the deep meaning of Olmsted: this 3.4 million square meters of green lung, originally dedicated to "the handicrafts of tired industrial workers", so that people who can not travel far can drink nature here. The boat house pier at dusk is the most magical, The wooden paddles smashed the red-stained lake, and the wild ducks swam through the reflection of Manhattan. The hustle and bustle of the city sank to the bottom, leaving only the breathing in the shadow of the oasis of the oars. "When the whispers of the bench fell into the palms with the cherry blossom rain, I knew that the oasis in this concrete wasteland, It was New York's prose poem to the world. "