New York City, March 9, 2015

★★★★ Retreating clouds made the delayed dawn arrive even more slowly. The cross street was in strong sun or reflected strong sun from at least three angles at once. The morning temperatures were wholly undecided, chilly in the shade and a little tropical in the sun. The churchyard maples downtown were twigging out, fractally expanding their still-bare canopy. The snowbanks were melting into dirt piles; the sun heightened the pallor of the dry-baked melt-grime everywhere. Workers shoved the standing curbside puddles with push brooms to disperse them. The idea of skipping the train to walk back up Broadway was irresistible, if not entirely balmy in execution. The view was bright but barren, like an old sepia shot of unimproved streetscape. Starlings sang agreeable music despite being starlings. High schoolers whooped under the scaffolding. A dachshund stumbled along the back side of Trumpville, wearing a brass-trimmed monogrammed green coat. Wind from the river was loud over the ears, but had no bite. The three-year-old forsook his stroller on the way back from preschool and broke away in a loose-limbed swaggering run, his coat undone and bobbing with freedom.