New York City, January 18, 2018

★★★★ The sun came on so pure and unimpeded that rooftop steam plumes cast meaningful moving shadows into apartments. The ground was clear and dry. Pigeons’ wingtips looked translucent; zippers on coats glittered. The brightness was expansive, unfaltering. It was cold enough to numb the face—correctly, appropriately, perfectly cold. A whole solid winter might be built of days like this, if only there were enough of them to find and stack together.