New York City, October 25, 2015

★★★★ By smooth orderly degrees, without dramatics, the wholly wet and gray morning became a wholly sunny early afternoon. “It’s so warm outside, I don’t even need my hoodie,” the four-year-old announced, shrugging it off in the middle of the sidewalk, Q.E.D. There were puddles at the curbs, and one of the pumpkins from the rack outside the grocery had wet mud on it. The hand that cradled the pumpkin got muddy. Into what, though, had the tidy progress led? There was a dampness yet to the bright warmth — not misplaced spring, not the usual autumn, something unsettled. Up in the apartment again, the faint, keen sound of a trumpet drew the ear to the open window, through which the even fainter sounds of the rest of a brass band drifted. Whenever the apartment door opened, the breeze blew more freely in across the couch. The light grew clearer and stronger, and air currents began to croon in the depths of the building. Outside now a chill was coming on but the four-year-old’s blood was up; he went spinning up the street, still without a jacket, in the rising wind.