Pity the snow. Cars belch on it, dogs poop in it, humans curse at it. Like a skull sitting on the rocky bank of a Polish poet's metaphor [Ed: Come on man, winter's over] it must endure a final indignity: a slow slide into obliteration. The Melt. Some banks are more prepared than others. Here's the prognosis on New York's Hottest Mounds.
This stretch has good grey scale and a strong Cig Butt Ratio, but its position in the sun makes for a merciful, speedy death.
MELT BY: Friday
Ice chunks NEVER go quietly into the night, yet these are perhaps nesting too far from the Mother Mound as to fully consolidate power. The midday shade helps, though.
MELT BY: Next week
This mound is covered in black armor, which normally would attract even more of the sun's penetrating rays if it weren't made with delicious chemicals. You will come to know it well, and invite it to your kid's birthday party only to arrive after a spring weekend to find it gone, its spirit leeching into the groundwater.
MELT BY: Easter
How has this snow stayed so youthful, so fluffy and lush? No matter. It will die like the rest.
MELT BY: Two weeks
Snow and trash, trash and snow; together they are stronger until man interferes with their slushy bargain and finally picks up the fucking Christmas tree from three months ago.
MELT BY: Thursday
This formidable mound has pounds to shed (don't we all!), but don't be fooled by scale. It's scared too, and with good reason: it will die alone.
MELT BY: April 1
If you can't be a snow bank, be a curb. Can you tell where the water particles end and the concrete begins? You still won't until it's too late.
MELT BY: Tax day
All photos by Joanna Purpich who honestly had nothing to do with the rest of this article I promise so just leave her out of it.
