Brooklyn Botanic Garden, on the side facing Flatbush Avenue, there is a berm. Slope, low hill. Between traffic and garden.
Right now it is a snow of crocus. Outside the fence a small boy stomped on them methodically while his mother chatted, obliviously. I barked at him, the international lingo of Hey!!! and wagged a finger. He stopped. He knew. I think he will become a stock broker.
I have never had much time for crocuses. They are charming, yes. But predictable.
I am won over.