March in New York is its own kind of rhythm.

You wake up not knowing if you’ll need a coat or just a sweater. The air still bites some mornings, but there’s this low hum of warmth trying to push through. The sky is brighter. Days are longer. It’s not spring yet, not fully—but it’s close enough to feel it in the way people move.

I wandered the High Line on one of those kinds of days. Late afternoon, golden light spilling over the buildings, catching in the glass, warming the edges of everything. The grasses were dry, almost amber, and people moved through it all slowly—talking, sipping coffee, soaking it in. There was no rush, just the simple act of being out in it.

This is what I love about New York in this season: the way it holds contradictions. Cold hands, warm sun. Ice skating in the shadow of skyscrapers while the trees around the rink are just beginning to think about blooming. It’s like the city is exhaling, just a little. Taking a break between the harshness of winter and the intensity of summer.

Everything feels temporary—but not in a bad way. More like a reminder to pay attention. These small, passing things—light on buildings, people sharing space without urgency, the echo of skates on ice—they matter too.

In this in-between month, the city feels a bit softer. Not less alive, just quieter in its energy. You can see it in the way people linger outside longer than they need to. In the sun warming cold metal benches. In the way the city feels a little more like a place to live in, not just move through.

And that’s enough, for now. The world is still turning. The seasons are shifting. And here, in this early light, it’s okay to just take it all in.

— Max