New York City, January 25, 2015

★★★ There was something near-springlike about the brightish sun and the heavy drip from the scaffolds. The north was blue, the southern sky white and more whitening. Snow aging to slush lay in the planting beds around the trees or where a tree should have been. The three-year-old held the scooter handlebars with bare hands. A stranger girl scootered up behind him and announced she was giving chase. A boy came through the playground gate wearing a knit Seahawks hat and carrying a football. Hard unround snowballs went flying here or there. The three-year-old steered close to the line of scrimmage on the blacktop, then went off to crash into the plow-formed snowbanks by the fence over and over. He dragged a lump of snow under the footboard, nearly losing control when it broke free, then went and got another lump. Eventually he pitched over the handles into a slush puddle and asked for his mittens. “I smashed the snow,” he said. A referee might have scored it differently, especially after the snow had scored another knockdown or two.