It’s 3:45 AM and clear in New York City and I’ve just come down from my roof, where I was checking up on the Leonid meteor shower, which once every generation turns into a stunning storm. It’s past due this year, but so far the count has been no more than about one per minute, instead of the much-hoped for hundreds. It’s supposed to peak after 5 AM, though, so I will take another look later.

The New York night is far less dark than before September 11; the Empire State Building does double duty now, its lights pressed into service until dawn instead of midnight–a red white and blue beacon shooting a column of light into the sky. And a white glow from Ground Zero floodlights bathes the buildings in the financial district as workers dig through the night. But the building where I used to work, 3 World Financial Center, is still dark. My desk there is exactly as I left it on September 10, and will remain that way for some time to come, a time capsule for memos and pursuits that now seem wholly trivial.

My roof is a fabulous perch. It sits suspended between earth and sky, giving both equal prominence. In Manhattan, the sky’s subtle pleasures are easily drowned out–Jupiter in Gemini, Orion prominent in the South, a meteor shower–these staples of the rural night are hard to notice down in the street. But I will always associate the place with what I saw from there on September 11.

5:20 AM: I counted 60 meteorites in a 15 minute period. Quite a few leave trails that last for a second or so.