New York City, June 17, 2015

★ Cool air brushed against the scalp. “It’s delightful outside, isn’t it?” a woman said. It was — utterly delightful, rich with promise. Sun on green leaves showed through the dense security mesh over the windows on the elementary school window. A man stooped and gathered little shiny bits of copper by the curb outside. The perfection invited plan-making: the Philharmonic in the Park, why not? But those ambitions from the brightness of midday met a late sky full of clouds. The sound of a passing plane rebounded off the low ceiling. Horse droppings lay in the splash marks of their attendant juices in the entry to the park. Balloons lunged and leaned against the barriers separating the general public from the VIP section. A raindrop or two fell. The balloons were liberated into the darkening sky, which got darker still as the introductory remarks and thanks to benefactors dragged on. Real rain began pattering down. Umbrellas and tarps came out, and a smell of wet grass and wet people thickened and clung to everything. The conductor apologized and vamped for a while as the string players struggled to protect their instruments from the oncoming elements. The three-year-old had brought his swim trunks and wanted to change into them. The stage and the program were hastily rearranged — Copland dismissed, the strings pushed further back from the stage. The rain subsided and the music returned. Eggplant colors appeared in the clouds around the edges of the park, while overhead appeared little curds of white, then deep blues and a glimpse of stars or planets.