Wild City
I’ve always had a fondness for the subway rats.
An ecosystem is a community of living, interacting organisms and their physical environment. In other words, everywhere is an ecosystem; an ecosystem is everywhere. My favorite ecosystem is the third rail of the Church Avenue bound G train track on a Monday morning at Clinton-Washington station in Brooklyn, New York.
Clinton Hill wakes at 6 a.m. on a Monday. At 6:05 a.m., the subway opens its arms to a tromping herd of business-class cattle, hooves scraping tiredly against its cinderblock steps. Briefcases dangle loosely by our sides, the sleepy city calves fight gravity over too-large backpacks. I, at the back of my herd, resist the urge to fall over. But the rats are awake this morning. Below us, they have been at work for hours.
Skittering little claws scrape quickly over the iron rails of the tracks, barely audible. A dash of a gnarled pink tail, a glimpse of a curled little ear. Two intent eyes trained on the ground ahead, never breaking concentration. A crumb is collected with deft skill from beneath a discarded coffee cup; it is stuffed in a cheek and saved for later. The guttural rumble of the G train sends the animal fleeing. It dodges into one offshoot of a fascinating and intricate network of tunnels. The train arrives. None of my herd notices the absence.
Washington Square Park, Manhattan, midday.
The rays of a vicious, humming sun glint across something iridescent and quick. Something…moving? No, fluttering—and fast. To humans, the arch is a famous monument. Lit and looming and grand. Complex, carefully etched angels creep their way up the stone legs of Mr. Washington’s memory. Motionless lips ring out a trumpet of congratulations. Luxurious curtains of rock are strung flowingly to the crown of the memorial. A thank you, a commemoration, an attraction.
But most of all, from what I can tell, a pigeon’s nest.
For the birds of New York City, home is where your twigs are. An almost violet neck over almost emerald wings over almost pinky little pigeon toes, stacked like stained glass atop the gleaming white monolith. Scattered garlands of tree litter decorate the landmark. Basket-sized puddles of life, assembled gently. Only the most exemplary bits of debris have been selected to conceal the peeping of new squabs. Fuzzy and wrinkled, they teeter on the edge of Mr. Washington’s arch, cupped in his hands. A pair of nervous pinprick eyes scan their domain. It is Wednesday and there are winged children to scold, scraps to collect, a forest of stone to scour. I grin, a mother’s silhouette casting her beacon against the sky.
Listen, it’s a party in Prospect Park.
Tucked beneath the veil of downtown Brooklyn is a haven of shuffling activity. The most conscientious of front door greeters, a yellow-suited bumble bee, straightens his tie and hums hello to the sticky drippings of a little girl’s ice pop. Further in, the bouncers await. (Here, I’ll tell you a secret: slip the squirrels a snack and you’ll be golden. You don’t want to be on their bad side, do you?)
Conversation flows to a fault. The grass, my feet. The labaradors, each other. The geese, their pondmates. A dragonfly, the wind. People, people, people.
The clamor is deafening and insistent. Termites scurry up the Norway maple, an omen of death for her brilliant green palette of leaves, but all else carries on. House sparrows, those stone-sized thugs, go hopping between picnic blankets, their eyes peeled for an easy steal. A few chipmunks, spotted only within the interior of Prospect’s deep wooded paths, warily dodge the scent trail of hunting canines. The turtles squat alone, content only with a patch of sun and the bubbling rush of their creek.
My dog, a muddy-brown ground creature, insists upon our route through the park. Just a little further, she implores. The wilderness is just ahead.
I know it, girl. I do.
A susurration on Chambers Street: it begins as a whisper. A fussy baby wriggles his way out of a restless sleep, unsatisfied with his mother’s attempt at lulling. He knows what currents swirl beneath his feet; he knows the real expert on rhythm. The Hudson River dances gently against the rough underbelly of our floating kingdom. Slap-Clunk-Gshh. The greenish silken surface of his murky world rolls like a lullaby atop fuzzy feathers. Only a duckling, he knows not yet what eyes lurk beneath it.
The disgruntled flutter of little wings is carried away by something altogether more insistent. A cacophony of animal squawks—twisted vowels and clicks and enunciations from all nations. Spanish, English, Mandarin, child. The trees, Tribeca’s collection of beauties from the London plane (spiky fruit, quite sturdy) to the ginkgo (pungent musk, quite ancient), speak a sweeter language. Their rustles whistle a polite greeting to the stamping of human paws, to words that go rushing obliviously by, too busy to talk just now.
Slowly we swell and morph into the thrum, thrum, thrum—the beat of a hovering helicopter, sea gull screech, new creature all together?
All of us become distracted. Sunset breaks through the salty wind. Hush, notice. A horizon lined with skyscrapers like hulking pillars of burning cloud.
Don’t worry, there’s no need to look up.
The stars are in Times Square tonight—constellations consume you. The violent glow of our contribution to nature assails your irises. The island appears as if on fire. Us too. Us, two-legged street animals. Shuddering, glowing, breathing in light.
Is a star an ecosystem? You are a star now. Here, at least, you are.
When you type “wild life of New York City” into a search bar, the Internet will tell you about our common species: coyote, beaver, river otter, sometimes even deer. The Internet will be lying.
These creatures represent the world’s attempt at synonymizing the city with naturalness. In my ecosystem, deer are not natural. Here, a beaver is as rare as the dam it builds. The cops would be called on your coyote. We had a whale, once, come gliding by the shore in the East River. They say the water is the cleanest it’s been in a hundred years, probably more.
My nature might not be natural, but the city never turned its back. You know she’s been waiting, right? Preparing her jungle of squirrels and pigeons and house sparrows.
Nurturing the doves and the bumblebees, the racoons and a million little fireflies. Right at dusk in Central Park, I whispered, “Look, quiet, they’re talking,” and the grass ignited with light. We have grass here, too, you know. We have life.
My city is wild; it is nature in its own right. It is the only forest I have ever known. You need only pay attention, to look closely, and it will find you.
I go way back with the subway rats. They can show you around.
Frankie Khan was raised in the Clinton Hill area of Brooklyn, and is a second-semester freshman in the creative writing program at SUNY Geneseo. She has previously had work published in the PEN America student magazine, The Moody New Yorker.