THE BLUE JAYS were loud, the blue sky was bright, the snow below was still glaringly clean. Clumps of snow that had escaped the storm’s scouring winds clung to the forks of the dogwood branches. People started doing some of the shoveling that hadn’t mattered yesterday, and that still wouldn’t be urgent until tomorrow. Shaved cheeks burned in the dry household air, and the cold water from the kitchen tap was too cold to wash vegetables in without adding some hot. The uncleared parts of sidewalk still had their fresh powdery crunch underfoot. Reflected light splayed out on a high north-facing stretch of blank brick wall. Adults lugged plastic sleds away from the park, with children in tow. Drops of gray-black water stood centered in the crosshatched diamonds of the subway stair tread. Crosswalk gutters were in nearly every state: dry, icy, puddled, thick with soft gray slush. Past the doormat of the big townhouse, towels had been laid down to catch the extra slop from shoes. Some of the young chamber musicians had brought concert shoes to change into. Out in the evening, an M10 bus with its chains still on came rhythmically banging down the wet pavement of Central Park West.
