New York City, November 25, 2014

★★ Two dense flocks of little dark birds plunged past the window, against the gray. The sun was a white unround blotch, the warmth was ebbing, the light dull. Wind rattled in the withered drab oak leaves still on the branches. The afternoon was short, though by nightfall the clouds had separated into individual forms, pale with the blended indeterminate color of reflected city light. The supposedly brewing storm was only theoretical, the converging forces not visibly converging. The ice cream truck was back at the corner. Later, the sound of chanting carried on the night air. Clouds had returned, holding in the sound of the choppers, now hovering, now coming low and turning uptown. The ground was soft, the grass colorless in the flashing lights, where the marchers streamed down the slope by Riverside Drive and up toward the elevated expressway. The smell of road flares drifted along the cross street.