It happens within a matter of days, a week at most. On Monday it's winter, the same as it's been every day for the past seven consecutive months. But on Thursday it's preteen summer, budding trees, erect tulips, potent yellow dandelions like packets of Indian spice, various ivies and climbers gripping the mortar between bricks. Blooming. And warm, too—18 or 19 degrees in the afternoon, a mix of sun and clouds—too warm for a jacket if you stay out of the wind very long. A discernible humidity in the air similar to a child's close breath. And if you live where I live, this moment in time corresponds with the return of the FREAKS. An explosion of beautiful freaks—where were they all winter? Is there a market shortage of expressive parkas?—The city streets climax in a chorus of bodies, skin, textiles, hair, faces, bicycles, strollers, wagons and scooters and skateboards and longboards and those single-wheeled electric hover-boards which must require unimaginable balance and core strength. A symphony (excuse the phrase), a symphony of necks and calves and wrists and dry elbows and knee-pits and the beginnings of breasts and bulges in the pockets of terrycloth shorts, and sunglasses, and earrings and baseball caps of a diverse vintage, and don’t you just want to (I just want to) watch the whole thing erupt into some desperate two-month orgy before winter remembers to re-return and overstay its welcome once again?