I'm glad I let the weatherman on TV bother me. I heard him say that the weather was more typically what you would expect in early February. How depressing but so true, the chill just seemed to cling to the city refusing to release its hold. Like everyone else, I continued to trudge around under the weight of winter clothes and on Saturday slid back into hibernation. Come Sunday. though I was eager to get out of the apartment and camera in hand, I set off for Central Park.
Very quickly, it became clear that there was a story being told here. Things had pushed past the bud stage and I was seeing tender young leaves braving the new season. Sometimes this would be spectacular in its isolation, a single shrub or tree moving forward on its own, sometimes in concert. The forsythia was in bloom, as were aconites, daffodils and dogwood. The weeping willow, the red cardinal the sprouting leaves and yellow flowers all whispered reassuringly to me - fear not what the weather man says.
