Yesterday, New York pulled summer heat and humidity out of seasonal storage, and transformed itself, as it does every summer, into a tropical city.
Upper Broadway sizzled.
Hot sounds
Hot colors.
Hot painted ponies.
Scorching hot ATM at Juanito's Barber Shop
In Riverside Park, workers plant new trees to cool the paths and hillsides.
Sweaty struggle with recalcitrant root ball
“Looks like a big job,” I say.
“Nah,” says the man. “Only fifteen trees.”
Oh, only fifteen.
Big baby tree throws itself to the ground
Back on Broadway, I find further proof, if proof were needed, that my city is a tropical paradise.
The Garden of Eden is in New York.
I may not live in the garden – they say Eden is guarded by an angel with a flaming sword – but I can shop there.
Later, a pigeon takes a break from parental duties at its nearby nest, and surveys the schoolyard,
where the blazing hot walls scream: “Save the animals” in bright blue paint.
Save the Animals
After sunset, a hawk flies home to its nest high on Saint John the Divine to tuck its three fuzzy babies in for the night.
Home for the night
