A fog, then the waxing moon ghostly among clouds. Later, they tatter and flee, after the moon has set, and only stars glitter in the black sky, the icy air. As I absorb their light and the silence, and the cold, there is a sudden crack, louder than an acorn hitting a metal roof, then a rustle as of rapid wind through leaves, but there is no wind, and last a loud whump of something striking the ground. I think that the oak in the back yard next door, or perhaps one of those over the back fence, has dropped a good-sized branch, but the night is too dark to tell. In a while, pale light will rise from the east and I will be able to see. I sometimes worry about the large branches which overhang the house. The oaks are lovely, but prone to suffer a concealed decay. It is one of the disadvantages of having giants for neighbors.