It's pouring rain in Brooklyn, I think. The wind of the cars and the drops spattering off the air conditioners may be exaggerating the sound. I am doing what I do every morning--sitting in my pink bathrobe at the kitchen table waiting for the coffee to brew, thinking about what words to write to you--but the noises around me are so different: airplanes, sirens, the slam of car doors, idling motors, a bus hissing past, snatches of pedestrian conversation, rain slapping at the windows, cats galloping across the floor in the apartment overhead

I have a day to myself. I thought of going to the New York Botanical Gardens to find a crocus, but the crocus will be so wet. So I think I will go to the Met and look at pictures.