Aberdeen, Maryland, to New York City, March 29, 2015

★★★ The thermometer on the glass of the kitchen door said 32 degrees when the seven-year-old got boosted up to read it. Shining ice lay in the junction where the tributary country road curved to meet the marginally larger stem road. More ice sat in the flooded parts of the stubbled fields, which were colorless as the leafless trees between them. The lump in the top of the three-year-old’s hat contained his gloves; his hands, clutching their palm fronds, were cold. The daffodils in the bed alongside the stone church were drooping over. Back by the house — 39 degrees now — squirrels dug through the seed hulls scattered below the bird feeders, in front of the bed of snowdrops. Nuthatches and titmice and chickadees came and went, and goldfinches the color of parchment. A Cooper’s hawk, twitching balefully, commandeered a low branch for a minute, then flew off toward the garage with or without something clutched in one foot. The little birds resumed their feeding. The sun falling through the near-closed blinds made the water in the toilet shine like a lamp in the dimness. Forty-six degrees after lunch, at car-loading time. Everything in the drab length of New Jersey was sharp-drawn and distinct, save only the firm new roadway dissolving ahead into a mirage of sky and car paint. Vultures were as abundant as Turnpike exits, naked heads visible at 70 miles an hour, give or take. There was nothing remotely resembling a cloud; a light haze was salient by default. The bulge of the gibbous moon seemed to grow fatter as it came into focus. Trees and balconies gleamed in the city. The layer of dust on the unwashed apartment windows was coppery in the sunset.