On the snowy bank opposite was another, blooming on a branch that resembled a compound fracture. Many damaged trees have not yet been pruned after destructive storms. The witch hazels are flexible enough to withstand high winds but are crushed or broken when large trees or limbs fall on them.
And a third, below. If we found no snowdrops, these were lovely compensation. See, it's broken, too.
I know. A squirrel.
This is on the edge of the Vale of Cashmere. A steady volunteer group keeps this part of the park as tidy as it can, though fixing the paths - deeply grooved and rutted and exploded and pot-holed tarmac - is beyond their scope.
The woods above Battle Pass. Scene of one of many fights in the Battle of Long Island, August 27th, 1776, in the American War of Independence. At this spot the (newly minted) Americans fought the mercenary Hessians (...I am partly descended from a soldier of fortune, but English, not Hessian - not saying that's good thing, it just Is). It was a long day. The battle moved all the way to where we live, in Cobble Hill. We walk with ghosts.
We avoided the Litter Mob woods. Too depressing.
And we found the snowdrops. One month to the day, earlier than before.
The leaf litter is very thick, and an enormous tree had crashed on top of a large patch.
Prospect Park should be a UNESCO World Heritage Site (these are the criteria that must be satisfied). Like the canals of Amsterdam. Then maybe the City of New York would spend more money on its upkeep.
Cold after our long amble, in temperatures just a little below freezing, we found an actual picnic table just up there to the left, in amongst those trees.
We stayed long enough to eat many slices of our local, cured duck breast, to discuss how we could have more duck shipped from Granville Island in Vancouver, to watch dog owners bellowing at their dogs, and to see the arrival of an elderly Asian couple, well-insulated in big red puffer jackets, sit down to their own picnic complete with intriguing steam from flasks.
After they had eaten she took a nap, head on arms on table, and he read the newspaper.
It is never too cold to picnic.