From your house, right now you can’t see me, strange as this may sound to a casual observer, but you can’t. How some nights you call me on the telephone to tell me that: from down in the valley, looking up on the mountain, you can see a faint blush of the otherwise blackened silhouette through the trees, which burns in my bedroom window: and you knew I was home. Well, darling, tonight you won’t. There is a cloud descended, and she’s smothered everything, even the smoke from the chimney sinks toward the ground—the birds, too, don’t know what to make of it. I just thought I should let you know.