Eddies of melting snow curve around discolored mounds of snow tainted with weeks of pet pee and soot. As the last patches of black ice melt away into the concrete, assorted rubbish loses its snowy veil. Bottle caps, pigeon fodder, and loose articles of winter clothing wash up with little hope for claim or cleaning. The city doesn’t springs back to life so much as rise slowly up, one piece at a time, like a pop-up book.
Children, awakened from their hibernation, appear on the plaza, kicking balls around the Bust of Sylvette, the Picasso sculpture, just been a funny stone in the middle of the grass. SoHo fashionistas, tourists, strollers, and wannabes fill the streets with foot traffic, human bodies flung back into motion. Little dogs no longer having to suffer the indignities of precious doggie clothes and footwear forced upon them by their doting owners. Larger dogs tied up outside a coffee shop while their masters rejuvenate with rare roasts of shade-grown South American beans.
Taxi cabs, Ubers, Lyfts, gypsy cabs, and stretch limos fill the streets, honking their way through messed of oblivious walkers, smug cyclists, and exhausted drivers. The thump of the truck rolling over the Houston pothole sounds every five to ten seconds, on the dot. Soon, the birds will return. Soon, the corner fruit stand will reappear, the kind and tired face of its licensed vendor smiling faintly at passersby while the antenna on his handheld radio tethers him to news from the rest of the world. Soon, the homeless guys who hang around the West 3rd stop will reclaim their positions along Bleecker, waiting for cheery visitors and buzzed post-grads to drop some beer money into their hats.
Spring is in the air.