★★★★ Light reflecting off the top of a tower off by the river beamed through the living-window and raised white pixels on the wall under the hanging wooden lattice. Outside the morning was October. Workmen were knocking down the scaffolding; a faded gibbous moon was descending in the clear sky. The three-year-old set off for preschool at a jog. A vehicle maneuvering in a parking space shook up a cloud of grit that got caught by the wind and flung in the face. The dust crunched disgustingly on the teeth and itched inside the shirt collar. An empty can rolled in a loud arc on the sidewalk. It seemed possible that the gusts on the way back from the river would blow away the dust in a sort of air shower, but all they did was deliver a piece of sharp debris to one eye. A pair of salt trucks and a Bobcat were attacking the snowmass still left on 70th street. The sun shone so strongly that the world flashed orange with each eyeblink. Down on Prince Street water was trickling onto the sidewalk from what was incredibly still solid sheet ice inside the fence of the Old Cathedral School. The sky stayed autumn-sharp all through the day, into the crispness of rush hour. The snow was almost — almost — gone. Up on Broadway, a new-looking pothole lay in the curb lane. The wavy, boxy shape of a copper-kissed tower was nested in the larger mirrored box of the glass tower across the avenue.