It’s a snowy Sunday, so of course, the Jane Siberry song:
Last year we were told the city was going to get hit, so the governor—giving the mayor 15 minutes notice—shut the entire MTA system.
We got bupkes.
So I was a bit see-it-believe-it, but this is what it looked like at noon on Saturday.
A proper storm.
This was the fire escape around noon:
And then around 5:00:
So, some decent accumulation.
It kept up well into the evening, at which point I headed outside; this was the entrance to my building:
With the driving ban there were no cars on the streets, so I copied the other shadow figures I saw and trudged down the middle of the avenue:
One bodega, at least, remained open:
By morning the warm and the wind turned the fire escape sculptural:
Beneath the blue, I headed to the park; I was not the only one with that idea, as every slope was smoothed by saucers, skinny cross-country skiers slowly glided along side trails, and snowmen appeared in fields and on fence posts:
I’m a sucker for the melancholy view:
But as I was walking out of the park, behind a guy smoking some skunky weed, and listening to David Bowie’s Ashes to Ashes wobble out of the speakers by the ice rink, I did come across some incongruous green:
It snows all across the north and the prairies; there’s nothing new about snow, there’s nothing special about snow in New York City.
Except it’s my city, and I like the snow, and I like the city.
And its incongruous green.