This is the seventeenth of March at street level — not plastic-hat kitsch, but the Book of Kells marched down Fifth Avenue with a brass band behind it. A deep bottle-green field floods with shamrock brights, gold-harp heraldry, and the looping ribbon of Insular knotwork.

Everything interlaces: borders never simply stop, they braid back into themselves. The gold harp of the Irish coat of arms anchors the whole system like a wax seal, and parade energy comes from saturation and density rather than clip-art clover.