Planes, trains, automobiles. We were far and away this summer; now we return home to New York’s hustle and flow. Cabs merge into traffic, we get swept along: this is The Routine.

The madcap ballet of the subway, a complicated dance: we lock eyes with those odd sweatpants declaring “my fête is my life!” and that shade of lipstick that must be Crayola carnation. Jaggedly up-tempo, the clanks and clatters make a cacophonous city symphony.

Then, suddenly, calm.

Swimming upstream but recognizing the current: The Routine.

Back on the sidewalks we go, walking to favorite shops for smoked trout and translucent orange caviar bubbles. No poetry in these simple foods: fish, bread, butter, eggs, citrus, and coffee, but none is needed.

Prose and Our Routine.

*Smoked trout from one of our very favorite shops, Russ and Daughters