New York City, April 26, 2015

★★★★ Blossoms glowed and skateboard wheels rattled. Sounds were as bright and crisp as the light in the clean air — the rustle of paper shopping bags in the hands of a man with a baby strapped to his chest, the individual note of an idling taxi’s engine, the shuffling of shoes, the squeak of brakes. Every parked car was its own sunburst, or two or three; a cyclist’s teeth were bright white. The afternoon, dulled by clouds, couldn’t match the promise of the morning. Still it wasn’t chilly, and the sidewalks were full. The sun broke through again on its way down, so that the living-room foam-rubber baseball game became a pure blinding golden haze from the pitcher’s mound. Purple clouds trimmed with pink remained when the light finally dropped behind the buildings.