★★★★★ A small flight of pigeons veered through the sun-filled space between buildings. A stray plastic bag was trying to float up and out of the trash chute on the building’s internal gusts. The kitchen garbage overbore it and carried it down again. Little dots of cloud peppered the sky in the west. Then quickly, but not for long, there was a fused and rippling cloud surface. Early afternoon was bright and gleaming. Purple undertones showed through the fake-weathered Ralph Lauren shop sign. A blur of taxi color reflected in the high second-floor ceiling of another clothing retailer. A cab ride of a dozen blocks crosstown was inferior only to the return trip on foot. Readers sat out on benches; sun glazed the facades down West Broadway. A dog walker blocked the sidewalk, mostly with a pair of Bernese mountain dogs, as two-legged pedestrians admired his clients. People stood out on a balcony, on the fake-turf roof of the boutique hotel, on the hotel’s fire escape. It was obvious what was coming, as thin sheets of southern cloud waited for the sun to keep lowering. Then there it was, a peach pastel rubbing by the hand of God, annotated in silvery indecipherable cirrus script. The trees across the street were wine red. Now a couple on the hotel roof was embracing and kissing. The blurry crescent moon faded out behind a pink cloud, then faded back again. In the turquoise nearby, the white light of Venus shone steadily.