People in strange plumage.
I spent as much of this first sort-of-summer weekend as I could outside in the park, on long walks or—at the very least—with the windows wide open, white curtains billowing. After a long winter of hibernation (which the whole city buys into), it's funny to witness an almost desperate mass grasp for green space and fresh air.
In his Paris Review interview, E.B. White explained:
It's true that you have to look a bit harder for "nature" in New York, but it really isn't too hard to find: a ladybug crawled out of my bag of farmer's market spinach and onto my hand on Saturday morning (lucky!); my shoulders (and one thigh, of course) are pink with sun; the wind blew so strongly that we couldn't keep candles lit, and when I got in the shower last night, I had both grass and sand on the bottom of my feet.
With his keen eye for it, E.B. White knows this even better than I do. And that's one of the reasons I return to his collection of essays every summer—when the city is greenest, most alive—and White knows how to say it best.