February Evening in New York

As the stores close, a winter light opens air to iris blue, glint of frost through the smoke grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk. As the buildings close, released autonomous feet pattern the streets in hurry and stroll; balloon heads drift and dive above them; the bodies aren't really there. As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens, a woman with crooked heels says to another woman while they step along at a fair pace, "You know, I'm telling you, what I love best is life. I love life! Even if I ever get to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know? Limping along?—I'd still ... "