★★★ A white wake cut through the blue, blue Hudson, under a clear morning sky. Light was everywhere, and so was the chill, both piercing the living room on the hypotenuse between the windows. Late sun came between the open slabs of a building under construction, glowing through the orange mesh on each story. A busker worked the corner in a sweater, leaning forward with a heavy-grained guitar. The sunset was a smooth, even wash of pink in the west. After dark, in the unobstructed sky by the building site on Amsterdam, the length of a don’t-walk signal was not enough time to glimpse any Geminids. But it was enough time to pick out the stars twinkling near the zenith. The signal changed. And then—something, or nothing, a flash of a white line segment, a streak on the celestial dome or simply a false impression on the inverted dome of the retina.