New York City, March 2, 2014

★ Overlaid on the all-day gray of the sky was a diffuse and nonspecific discoloration, like an old bruise. The toddler spotted the snow first, toward day’s end. Fine flakes began blowing down at an angle, and something even less visible was falling among them at an angle closer to plumb. And then even as the threat seemed to be coming true, it subsided. Out in the fading light, the continuing snow was too fine to see, a prickling on the forehead. The bread supply at the Fairway was intact; the aisles were relatively calm. On the way back, the snow was weaker still. The dread of winter was near exhausted. As the kale splattered in the pan, it was impossible to summon the will to take off and protect the sweater.