New York City, March 30, 2015

★★ Clouds that had seemed to be lightening and separating condensed instead into a darkish gray mass with a strong wind blowing under it, and still no leaves to break it. The school dropoff was late enough and cold enough to discourage the commute. Through the windows by the couch, the brightness arrived at last, till for a while clouds were thin and white, spread out against the blue. Then solid-looking puffs of cumulus arrived, and began clumping and darkening. The afternoon wind had not changed its essential character from the morning, but in the light — and before the vicinity of the river — it could be taken as invigorating. The children were inspired to run in it. “The sky looks like paint, Dad!” the three-year-old announced in the later afternoon, looking out at new formations of blue and white. “The clouds!” The sun, when it lowered, executed at least a double bank shot to blaze from the northeast corner of the apartment towers. Now the clouds were purple, edged with rose gold, and then plain purple, against a lemon sky.