A block west of my house is one of the main north-south roads of the town. Two lanes, no parking, no streetlights, no traffic signals, but a main road none the less. It is lined mostly with houses, but a few businesses and institutions intrude. About a quarter mile north of my house is a health club. It is one of the few places nearby with outdoor lights that burn all night, though many nights they are turned off. In the summer, the glow of these lights is largely obscured by the trees at the north end of my street. But, in winter, when the oaks are bare, the light is more noticeable. It is most noticeable on a night such as this, when a thin fog hugs the ground. The fog reflects the light and creates something like a false dawn. In this light, the silhouettes of the bare oaks stand out starkly, every branch and twig, as though cut out of night itself. I find myself staring at those trees, as though I had never seen them before. Fascinating, how a slight change can make the familiar seem strange.