It might not happen every day. It would be foolish to think
so given the kind of winter we’ve had: Blizzards, snowstorms that defied
forecasts, ice cover for weeks unlike anything I’ve seen in my 27 years in New
York City. Except for the one colossally botched forecast of a non-blizzard
that nonetheless shut down the subway and exposed the Keystone Kops media for
what they are (“I’m standing in a snowbank here and you can see that my feet
are entirely covered by snow!”), Gotham weather has been worse than expected
every single day for two months.
That screwy pattern is continuing, but instead of snow and
sleet, we’ve rain and clouds. The sun as likely to appear as your clown uncle you loved as a child who never failed to make you belly laugh – something you
didn’t do very often – but he didn’t come around to see you hardly at all.
For me, it’s back to the birds. To attempt in this new
season to channel those wee things as I finally get back to running on the
trails in Prospect Park. Today (March 17) I saw my first cardinal in weeks! And
a blue jay, looking resplendent as they do, none the worse for winter wear.
The trees are alive with their sounds. Yesterday (March 16) M
and I saw two playful robins in the air, flying united, flutter-balling, which
would sound naughty if they were mammals, but as birds it’s meant to describe
the frenzy of mating, the best sign I can think of at the moment that after a
seemingly endless winter spring has sprung.
Next: Running for Your Life: Paper Boy
