Although the rain has stopped, the clouds linger. At dusk, some are ragged black strips churning north amid streaks of bright silver. Later, a thinning patch to the south reveals the half moon. The night is very cold, and very quiet. I smell wood smoke drifting from dark chimneys, and hear a few remaining drops of water fall from the pines. For a moment, I think I hear thunder rolling in the mountains, but it turns out to be a jet passing. They are always louder on cold, cloudy nights. Its roar bounces around the sky until it fades southward. I never see its lights.