New York City, June 21, 2015

★★★★ In the dark gray morning, with the ominous forecast, it seemed as if the maximum daylight would go to waste. But there was plenty of time: The clouds parted, and brilliant sun fell on the streets. A warm, energizing breeze played over the streets. Little tattoos were bared. The eight-year-old steered a course for the shady side of the street. By later afternoon there was more heat and less breeze. At the piano lesson, one curtain bellied against the screen and one leaf of a potted plant stirred, but no current made it as far as the couch. Toward dinnertime, dark clouds with ragged edges moved under the high white ones. A seagull, its own study in gray and white, banked and turned. A few raindrops tapped on the window. Upriver the view was clear to the faraway highlands, while 120 degrees away downriver was an opaque gray blur, the water invisible. The gray thinned and a boat appeared between buildings, trailing a white wake. By the time dinner was over, the sky was clear blue, the air calm. The Lincoln Center did its boom-thump skyward. A little girl and her littler sister, in dresses and cardigans, sat on the fountains rim, the older one making conducting or summoning gestures at the waters, then whooping and tipping back her head at a high-flaring eruption. The three-year-old ran himself sweaty, then ran some more, furious that his older brother’s longer stride could go faster. The final traces of the sun edged the clouds in the west with vivid pink. In the night, after that peaceable end, there came a sharp clattering against the glass. A hand stuck outside to test for hail came back drenched.