You can never tell, with March. Right now, there are mounds of snow on our Harlem terrace. In parks, gardens and on streets flowers are a month behind schedule, but they will catch up within weeks, as they did last May when everything bloomed at once.
March is when it begins. Tick, tick, tick.
And I will miss it.
Family matters call me to Cape Town, and soon I will plunge from the end of winter to the end of summer in a day's flight. Seasonal whiplash.
These are pictures from previous Marches. The city unwrapping itself from the heavy layers of winter.
I will be back in April, when spring has got a grip.
This week, temperatures will be above freezing. On Sunday - when our time changed and turned sane again - I walked with just two sweaters and without a coat. I felt thin.
It would be nice, in this thawing weather, to visit a wintery beach:
"We still like empty shorelines. On Vincent’s birthday, with high cirrus striping the washed sky, we take the subway to the end of the line and then board a bus bound for the Far Rockaways, part of the string of barrier islands that shelters New York from the Atlantic Ocean. Baguette and saucisson are packed, cameras are locked and loaded. Here, beyond the dunes, there is no spring profusion. The beach is austere; the only interruptions to its surface are the shells and smooth stones left by the retreating tide. Mussels cluster around exposed wooden pilings.
"Except for a man on a bicycle who inspects shells, and two girls who walk as we do, armed with cameras and curiosity and wrapped in sweaters and coats and woolen hats, we are alone. We spread our kikoi on the sand and eat our picnic and sip our cool red wine, finding respite from the cement and streets and traffic in this wide open silence, the collapsing waves, the wheeling seabirds. The sea is silver and blue, the seashore vegetation wind-bitten, gray, and reclusive. We ride back into Brooklyn with salt in our hair."
From 66 Square Feet - A Delicious Life.