Congress Street sidewalk: my route to the subway.
Just a couple of days ago I was reading extended weather predictions hopefully, searching for snow. After two months of South African summer I have been spoiled in the past by New York snowfalls soon after my return, giving me an instant winter. It didn't look like happening this year, but today we have 5 inches. It promises to turn sloppy later: when grey puddles collect at the step-off points on sidewalks into the street, when shoes and boots leak and cars turn the roads to muddy and staining sludge. But right now it's white, and beautiful, and still something like magic to a romantic like me.
In Cobble Hill Park this lady skidaddled when I asked if I might take a picture of them. What did she think I would do? Post it on a porn site with clothes digitallyremoved? Not a bad idea. The snow brings out in parents whose job it is to clothe their children, a troubling propensity for pastels.
I shall do a retake in spring, when these street pears burst into snowy blossom.
Across the road from the office, in Sarah D. Roosevelt Park, two small boys, one black, one white (I should add black-ish and white-ish - I grow weary of absolute labels) repaired a large snowman who collapsed ealier. They had no vested interest in him - were just passing. But they picked up his fallen head, stuck it back on and gave him a face. Then they patted him for the last time and took off, smiling. The adults grumble about snow. Kids know what to do with it.