Nope, no sheep here

They say you can find everything in New York, but I have not found any sheep, bighorn or otherwise. Perhaps I just haven't looked hard enough. Perhaps they are hiding in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. Or grazing on Sheep Meadow in Central Park, visible only to the pure of heart.
It snowed here yesterday for the first time, with very little warning. We woke up Sunday morning to find the world had turned white. By midday it was already slushy and melting, turning gray and brown in the streets and sidewalks. The sky was grey. The buildings were brown and gray. A symphony of urban neutrals, in short. The Christmas tree vendors, who have sprouted up on the sidewalks like magic, provided the only spot of color and life. They were shaking the snow off their unfurled trees (many of the trees are wrapped in net and folded up like umbrellas for easier transport) sending waves of evergreen scent into the cool damp air, carrying a faint memory of the place they came from. I thought of the Christmas tree farms you can see in the mountains of North Carolina, the perfectly spaced trees marching in rows up the steep slopes. Destined, perhaps, for a street corner in Brooklyn.