This afternoon the clouds finally began to break up over midtown. (It was the rainiest March on record, in case you didn't hear the news.)
Something about the light made the rest of midtown look plastic and unreal, a model of a city instead of the real thing.
Back in Washington Heights, I stopped in at the park at the intersection of Saint Nicholas and Broadway, where I was entranced by the daffodils. (Or at least slightly entranced.)
Or at least entranced enough to take more than one picture.
It's not an easy life to bloom so close to the traffic and exhaust of Broadway, but daffodils never complain about anything; it's one of the reasons they're very popular.
In the garden, where I arrived a few minutes later, the hellebores are the star attraction (although the white ones are a little annoyed at having dirt all over their petals from so much rain).
I spent time pulling out a few of the million or so maple trees that have sprouted in the garden.
The dawn redwood and the firethorn are each ready to burst with new leaves.
Back at the apartment, the sun was setting.
Zephyr and I watched this forgotten sight (he with some apparent skepticism).
Sometimes things we love disappear for a few days and it's difficult to remember exactly what they looked like (and this realization pains us); when they reappear, however, you might feel thankful for the absence, because it's like seeing it again for the first time.