I can hear the subway creaking along the curves in the outdoor tracks that weave between the buildings in Bushwick, Brooklyn. It’s dark outside, just before midnight, and I’m having a beer with my window open. Today’s temperature nearly struck 80 degrees. A few nights ago I was shivering beneath my covers, thinking that Mother Nature is kind of a bitch. Today, she smiled. Spring in the city.
The warm air carries different sounds. The wind doesn’t whistle; it puffs. Baseball bats crack. People talk through smiles, their open jackets flapping. Sunglasses and squinting. Flowers for sale on the sidewalk.
Spring is streaky, an in-between that never lasts. But everyone feels spring. It’s audible. And my ears perk up to happier people and their sounds in the warm air.