★★★★★ The breeze was nimble; the sun came strong all the way to the ground, so that the colors of sneakers glowed and decorated sandals moved like trails of sparks. A gleaming clump of flies lifted away from an intact pile of dog turds. Each stone block in the face of the tower of St. Paul the Apostle cast its own rugged little shadow, while in the other direction the One57 tower stood dully against the hazy glare on the blue. Beach carts were rolled onto the B train, a furled sun umbrella sticking up out of one. Downtown, people ate sausage and eggs at lunchtime at sidewalk tables, a few steps away from the stench of rot. The pavement was extravagantly stained and spattered, in dried accumulated layers. What did everyone do with their hands as they strutted down the street, before mobile phones? Oh, yes, cigarettes. Out on the fire escape, the warmth soaked in. The afternoon light glanced off hard surfaces and kept on going. Across from the 72nd Street subway exit from the B, one beam of light striped the deep green face of the Park. A fly walked on the bread at the bakery counter. Assume or pretend it didn’t walk on this particular quarter-loaf. Pink scraps of rubber lay in the dark spot where a water balloon had detonated. The night was gently warm, the stars not ostentatiously winter-sharp, but there nonetheless.