The city stops being a shape and becomes a circuit. By day a helicopter shows you the geography: an island between two rivers, the wall of Midtown, the harbour opening south. At night the geography disappears and what is left is light — the avenues running north in straight lines of white and red, the bridges strung with sodium, the towers lit from the inside floor by floor, and the black gaps where the rivers and the park are.
Central Park becomes the most striking thing in the frame. This is the surprise. By day the park is green and unremarkable from the air. At night it is a black rectangle in the middle of a city that is otherwise solid light, and on a route that crosses the island you fly directly over it. Nothing else in New York looks like that.
The Statue of Liberty is smaller than you expect. Lit, alone, gold against black water, but a single point of light rather than the presence she is at midday. If she is the photograph you came for, fly in daylight.
Photography gets harder and better at the same time. Through glass, at night, from a moving platform, with no tripod: most phone photographs come out as smeared light. A camera that will hold a fast shutter at a high ISO gets images nobody else on the flight will have. Decide which you are before you board, because trying and failing costs you the flight.