★★★ The dead air–the deadest air–was in the cross streets, in the dim, sweltering morning. The wind was blowing on the uptown-downtown ones, and a drizzle was being wrung out of the sky. A needly genuine rain followed, then sun and a hot, damp wind. That little cycle dispensed with, the real phenomenon arrived: darkness again, heavy racing clouds, cold gusts. Low in the east, the sky was still white, and above it on the boundary the clouds were rumpled and choppy. The rain hit the western windows in a furious blur, while the eastern view, in the lee, stayed in focus. By rush hour it had all blown out. A woman tap-tapped her way out of the train with a furled full-length umbrella. The line-sitters for the Apple store were still sheltering under the scaffold across the street. A bit of pink appeared in the west, and the sky was suddenly all billowing purples, stunning waves of deep color. Balcony rails lit up with sharp lines of orange; orange shimmered on the darkening Hudson. Days' worth of unused beauty, delivered at last.
Tuesday, October 8th, 2013