New York City, March 23, 2015

★ It was time to focus maybe on the sun-flushed pinkish haze of buds in the crowns of the trees far below. Little phenomena. Not to listen to the women in the elevator commiserating about their heavy coats. The singing of the birds — or was that too agitated? The cold was the cold, the same defeating cold. Enough of the cold. Notice the blues of the sky and the river and the hills, subtly different, not unworth looking at. The blinding spark of an airplane. The sun could be transformative, if you were a thing made of metal. No denying, it was a good day to be ductwork on a roof. The edging of windows. Wonderful conditions for the shiny and insensate.