Eyes to the Sky

        At 94th and Broadway, a hunched and hatted old man crossing the street was cut off by a young woman walking uptown. He scowled up at her back while she, unknowing, continued on away from him.
        Grumpy, he sneered and muttered to himself as he returned his face to the earth. Like many New Yorkers, it was as if he sneered and muttered every day of his life.
        A moment later, though, his tired scowl relented. He stopped walking, and his gaze blankly and wearily rose to level to scan the every day way before him. A UPS truck. Some cars. Trees rustling in the breeze.
        And then, several shuffled steps later, when a beam of sun opened upon his wearied figure, he stopped, turned his eyes to the sky, smiled, straightened, and washed himself in the light.