On Saturday night, after a stock kerfuffle with our significant other, we found ourself alone on a roof. It was overcast and mild. No stars, just a soft/vague ring of lights from surrounding buildings. At one point, looking up, we saw a large gray bird flying silently and swiftly across the gray clouds. It was barely discernible — in view only for around six seconds, then disappeared. It was so lonely, so beautifully melancholic that it managed to dilute the impotence of our irrelevant situation (though we also shuddered).

Related: John Field — 18 Nocturnes