New York City, June 9, 2015

★★★★ The eight-year-old was up, if not with the gray dawn, soon enough after. The air was so humid under the clouds that the coolness almost didn’t count. Sun flashed unexpectedly on the treads of the subway stairs; the featureless sky had acquired features. The light brightened and sharpened in a peaceful transition to a wholly different kind of day. A red cornice stood straight against the blue in a puddle. Through the slats of the blinds there was no way to determine what of the pink and blue was sky and what was cloud. The blinds went up: The pink was the sky.