The squirrels Sunday were in stampede upon the roof. Don’t know what that was about. I mean, the squirrels are always scampering around on the roof. But generally they’re not in great noise about it.

Maybe: a celebration. That they could even be on the roof. Because ten months ago Sunday, nobody was on the roof. Because there wasn’t enough air up there. Squirrels, in their druthers, will move through the air—trees, wires, roofs, etc. But, in the fire, the squirrels stuck to the ground. So did the birds. Because the air had gone wrong. Restlessly moving in my rounds about the house, I, for hours, disturbing little clouds, of ground-bound birds. Flying no more than a foot off the ground. Because the air—their world—had gone bad on them. All, was fire.