Had these photos been taken a week ago, two impossibly tall skyscrapers would dominate the view.

Instead, what remains of them lies beneath the slowly drifting cloud of white smoke in the center of the frame.

North of Canal Street, where these photos were taken, there is no evidence, no physical damage to structure or signage. Only deperate clusters of missing persons fliers and an endless parade of municipal, state, and federal vehicles break the spell of life as usual in lower Manhattan.

That's not exactly true, of course-- but the physical manifestations of grief collect in small pockets around the city. A girl stops amid the bustle of the Times Square subway station and scans the fliers, wondering at the lives and deaths of the people pictured on the Xeroxed sheets. In the West Village, a man stoops to add his candle to the collection keeping vigil outside a suddenly empty firehouse, its driveway filled with flowers. Flickering candles line the wide center median of Broadway in Harlem, appearing immediately at dusk, as if by magic.

Surrounding it all are American flags, signs proclaiming life, signs praying for safe passage for New York's "angels," and, in every shape and form, pleas for peace and an end to senseless violence. Nowhere as I walked around did I see messages of hate, declarations of war, or a call to arms in revenge. New York on this Sunday was about grieving, picking up the pieces, and getting on with life, a little wiser than we were a week ago.

Firehouse on W. 10th Street, home of Squad 18.
The company was one of those lost on September 11.

The driveway of this recently renovated firehouse is three feet deep in flowers, with a large group of candles in the center. There are several toy firetrucks among the candles. On the walls around the station are letters of gratitude from nearby residents.