So, on this muggy and misty morning, occupiers cleaned Zuccotti themselves: some people walked the space with garbage bags, collecting litter; others swept or scrubbed. I saw one person scraping goo off the pavement. Where in previous days there have been many protest signs spread out or piled on the north end of the park, today there were buckets of soapy water and a garbage can full of mops and brooms. But it was early—many people were still sleeping. Several were meditating; others carried paper plates of scrambled eggs on a slice of dark bread.
Police in riot gear didn't show, but around 9 a.m., cops formed a line on Trinity Place, many zip-tie handcuffs hanging from their pants. But as another hour passed, nothing happened. The mood lightened; things began to return to normal. The tubs of books were wheeled in; people started painting new signs; drumming and dancing commenced; a young woman tossed a beach ball into a crowd. A long-haired kid sat on a wall reading "Civil Disobedience." A young guy sat down next to me and chanted, "all day, all week! Wet, soggy, cold feet!" Still, the earlier anxiety hadn't dissipated totally. Some theorized a conspiracy afoot—that cops were just waiting for the crowds to thin, for a false sense of placidity to sink in, before they stormed the park.