Write of Spring

Spring, if it ever arrives, will knock on our doors wearing a woolen scarf, earmuffs and large overcoat. Shivering badly she will stagger through the house, out the backdoor to the leafstrewn yard, collapsing in a heap near the corner of the fence from which will sprout, in two weeks time, a parade, a cascade of daffodils. There will be gusts of sharp wind and an edge to the day. Clouds will stream overhead dotted with flights of geese headed North. Tiny black buds on the ends of tree branches will peel back their coatings to reveal the purest chlorophyll green . That's what happens out in the boondocks. There are different signs of the season in the city.

For one thing, you see a lot more cigarette butts out in front of the bars, and the homeless men begin sleeping in the doorways next to the bodegas. If there is any hint of sun, the local restaurants set their outside tables and game-for-anything tourists sit shivering in the brightening light. More ducks are on the ponds and more runners are on the paths in the park. There are shorts and tee-shirts in the windows at the GAP.

And love, yes, I said love, is in the swirling whirling winds blowing through the city. A couple I know who have known each other for over forty years and who have just re-discovered one another (it's a long story) are making each other's lips chapped from all the kissing. That's them in the picture. You can't see them. It's dark. Just the way they like it.

Meanwhile, another love story is happening down at Water Street. The falcons should be arriving at any moment. Here you can see their whole story.

This is dis-jointed and unconnected, rough and a little bit raw, I think I have Spring fever.