Outside, in the dusky daylight, the trash collectors are bumping among the bins. Traffic wanders past: thin on this side street; heavier on Fourth beyond the corner. In an hour I'll step out of the apartment and into the stream of bodies striding down the avenue, down into the subway, toward Manhattan. The tension may be lower today, or it may not. Yesterday the platforms were full of cops; we'll see what today brings.

This morning I'm heading to New Jersey, to the school where I'll spend the morning. Then, in the afternoon, an invited dress rehearsal for a play (I don't know the name) and Macbeth at night. In the interstices: walking, sitting, watching, talking.

So far my visit to the city has been what it usually is: a whirlwind of eating and chatter, with friends I've known for most of my life. And yet everyone is under stress. Fear is so easy to trigger.

Still, there have been beauties. Familiar affections. Daffodils everywhere. Trees in bloom. Lingering on a patio in shirtsleeves. Three Iris Murdoch novels cadged off a free shelf.