New York City, February 19, 2013

★ A bar of bright orange shone on the apartments to the west, but the color slowly drained away from the day thereafter. Late morning was mild, almost even to the Hudson. Bricks and trees and dirt were all brown, in shades not worth distinguishing, under gray sky. The brightest thing in the landscape was a patch of maroon mulch, spread on a side planting below grade. The severed wings and bloody backbone of a pigeon lay in one piece in the street between Trump buildings, with one wingtip waving in the chilly breeze off the river, manifesting itself at last. A street-sweeping sign clanked quietly in its brackets. By early afternoon, over the subway mouth, the clouds had gone to a frank dark gray. With the gray came rain, and with the rain came gusts.