A cold winter morning in New York City. As I leave my apartment, I bundle up in a heavy coat and don a scarf the colors of the rainbow, with matching knitted cap to cover head and ears. On dark mornings I am ablaze, bringing bright color to drab city streets.
To ward off icy blasts, the scarf covers part of my face. I look like a highwayman. How might a passerby react to my declaring, "Stand and deliver!"?
Founder and sole member of the Polar Bear Breakfast Society, I eat a doughnut seated on a Fifth Avenue bench.
I enter Central Park. Few dog walkers and joggers are about. Treacherous ice patches dot the walkway. My fingers are frozen, despite gloves.
In the Central Park Zoo, the polar bears are joyful and the sea lions bark. Now, unlike in the dog days of summer, they are in their element. A mini-iceberg has formed in the sea lion pool.
The sun brings no warmth, but casts glorious rays on West Side buildings.
I enter a subway station. With fingers numb from the cold, it is difficult to slide my subway card in the turnstile.
It is freezing on the platform.
The train arrives.
With pleasure I board the warm and crowded car for the trip downtown. My glasses fog over, just as they did in Moscow years ago in bitter winter weather.
At the office I remove gloves, coat, scarf, and cap. I welcome the clanking of the radiator by my desk. Thank you, Prometheus, for stealing fire from Zeus.