There are weeping cherries in bloom in the planters at 32nd and Broadway, across the street from my subway entrance: cheerful white blossoms, with tulips just opening below. The Callery pears (a hardy ornamental, which don't seem to bear fruit, or maybe the city only plants male trees) are also opening, but they lack the exuberance.
The city is full of daffodils. New Yorkers have planted lots of them in the last few years, and it seems as though they're all open this week, lots of cheerful yellow, and here and there some white-and-yellow or white-and-orange. (The weekend's nor'easter flattened most of the remaining crocuses, but the daffodils seem unaffected.)
This morning, I pulled the first maple sprouts out of a crack in the sidewalk. It's habit, mostly, though useful habit in that context: there's no way a tree would be able to grow there, or allowed to try, and they do less damage if pulled immediately. I pulled a dozen or so more out of the garden next door on my way home, and one from a crack right next to our building.
What I want now is some sunshine: we've had enough rain for a bit.
The city is full of daffodils. New Yorkers have planted lots of them in the last few years, and it seems as though they're all open this week, lots of cheerful yellow, and here and there some white-and-yellow or white-and-orange. (The weekend's nor'easter flattened most of the remaining crocuses, but the daffodils seem unaffected.)
This morning, I pulled the first maple sprouts out of a crack in the sidewalk. It's habit, mostly, though useful habit in that context: there's no way a tree would be able to grow there, or allowed to try, and they do less damage if pulled immediately. I pulled a dozen or so more out of the garden next door on my way home, and one from a crack right next to our building.
What I want now is some sunshine: we've had enough rain for a bit.
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