The uneclipsed moon is showing itself tonight, silvering the rumpled clouds and making the black, bony trees glimmer. The still, cold air smells of winter wood and damp earth, with no hint of sugar plums. The night is, however, silent— like a long-empty tomb unstirred by even a ghost of a ghost. It is late. The chimneys have ceased to smoke, the dark houses are falling cold. Rooftops catch tree shadows and ancient starlight, and the clouds drift like tatters of storm-rent sails blown from some foundered ship. More clouds will gather, and tomorrow will be gray, but its light will still unwrap this night like a gift. Oh. Another one of those. How nice.