★★★★ Cirrus clouds slid along the sky at a noticeable but unhurried pace. Birds were singing. Hazy and dazzling morning sun glinted on the little smooth grains in the sidewalk concrete. Down in the subway station, out of the bouncing light, there was a deep, lingering chill. It was worth overshooting Broadway/Lafayette to walk up from Grand Street with a cup of Hong Kong tea. The light hit the trees above Kenmare and discovered shades of green emerging from the brown of their upper branches. People sat out at sidewalk tables in the afternoon, wearing light jackets. A man crossed Prince Street wearing flower-print shorts and boat shoes without socks. A silver glow lay over Lower Manhattan. Up at Columbus Circle, One57 looked like an unconvincing rendering, jutting flatly and singly up behind the textured collective of the older, humbler skyline. Broccolini in a hot pan set off the smoke detector, and the fresh evening air blowing through the opened window was delicious.