Fall in full swing now, the trees in Lincoln Towers’ green space shed their leaves; beneath awnings, the heat lamps shined on passing pedestrians and conferred on them an orange rotisserie glow. With November’s approach, there was an entirely different quality to the light that on overcast days imparted to the sky a color closer to granite, to the Hudson an even more forbidding opacity, a solidity, as if ore might be transmuted to liquid not by heat but rather cold.
