At night, Rockaway is quiet. The ocean ebbs in the moonlight. Tightly nestled houses of architectural miscellany lurk quietly in the dark, only the occasional glowing window suggesting people within. Above, you’re serenaded by the relentless roar of low-flying air traffic destined for the nearby airport, one of the busiest in the country. I’ve come to think of the rhythm of the air traffic – visually marked by their flashing lights – set to whatever narratives play out within, as Night Music.