Every fireplace and wood stove in town must be lit. Their smoke, held low to the ground, drifts like fog, from which it can be differentiated in this chilly air only by its pungent smell. It looks as though all the dark damp left by the storm were vaporizing. But it is icy cold. The clouds have rapidly dissipated with dusk, remaining only in the west, where sunset makes of them an orange and purple bruise. Through a haze of bare oak twigs I see the thinnest crescent of waxing moon. Once the fires are banked, the night will be clear. Tomorrow, sunlight, at last.