The High Line, in this strangest of Aprils. We had that snow in October, breaking trees all over the city, and we have now three months of spring compressed into its beginning.
It is the least undiscovered of New York's parks.
A fluoresent redbud. I refrained from nibbling its sweet flowers.
A white redbud.
Down in the woodsy sections, foaming tiarella and woodland phlox.
And in the era of reviled lawns, I still like the clipped green carpet above 23rd Street.
Below, the Chelsea Meadows are still flat. By August they are rolling, voluptuous grassland.
And from below the park really does disappear, preserving its aura of lost and found.
I'll check back in again in late May, and see what is happening, then.