Fireworks bloomed all over Brooklyn, on the rivers and New Jersey in the distance, some in haphazard bursts, others methodical, he result of civic budgets and deliberate preparations. The big ones were on five barges somewhere on the Hudson. Their reflections flashed on every pane that faced them and their thin, sulfurous smoke crept across the skyline.

At the end of it the crescent moon appeared in the left side of the sky, in a band of clouds, blurry, indistinct. It was almost cloaked again before it finally reemerged, reclaiming the night for good.

Back downstairs, we heard a solitary voice from the street, through our living room window. It was a weary, male voice, with an old-time, Brooklyn accent. Here is what it said:

Fuck you!