Last spring, I caught sight of this old man making his way home with a bit of scavenged firewood. I imagine he’s using it now. The wind is so cold. And so fierce when it whips up. An hour ago the sky was black and the beams were creaking. Now it’s serene. Not a cloud in sight, except for those harmless stragglers, skidding like dust bunnies before a brilliant moon. The smell of smoke is in the air. The wind pulls it out of the chimneys, sideways. Some of it is his.