It's still there. Up in Inwood.
Just like it was when I walked in the big fat snowfall, four weeks ago (to the day).
I have never known a New York winter where the snow stays around like this.
I've pushed back my first spring botanical walk by one week, to March 29th. Definitely colder than usual.
Spicebush buds have appeared, though. If you scratch the twigs you smell the orange-zest scent.
Apparently awfully good with slow-cooked possum.
On the higher ground on thick leaf litter, snow had begun to melt, revealing field garlic.
What is this perennial? Already pushing out new growth. It is quite possible I ask every year, and promptly forget. I am my father's daughter. In some respects.
By the time this post goes live said father either will have, or won't have, finished the Cape Argus Cycle Tour. 105kms. Lots of hills. He's 81. Stent, more or less one working lung, and a pacemaker.
Anyone know the plant?
There was a kayaker
And a Frenchman.
As my boots got wetter and wetter I realized how unconnected to the seasons we are, even as I fancy I observe them minutely. I should have known not to wear my leather boots. I should have known that weeks' old snow would not simply evaporate neatly, but would dripdripdrip away, leaving puddles and slush and mud holes. But we don't know this. Not in the city. The woods are another country. Spring thaw is just words.
My boots are now stuffed with paper and waiting for an oiling.
The oldest woods on Manhattan island, these. Perhaps the only woods, as Central Park's are manufactured.
I liked the grey and tan and white.
One day, there will be green.