★★★★ Backwards went the season, for the moment. The air was warm with a faintly chilly underlayer, like spring arriving. The march through the closet to heavier coats reversed itself, and even the light jacket went unbuttoned. On the plaza by the 72nd Street subway control house, the emergency gate inside sounded like a tree full of twittering birds. Mother-of-pearl haze glowed in the air to the south, as long as there was sunlight to catch on it—but the sunlight, ignoring the false cues, kept dwindling on schedule.