The gloomy hours. The shadows of bats in late sundown, and the sound of crickets and other nocturne insects in the meadows. A huge tractor engine roaring through the night. There are stories in everything, some old, some new, few of them simple or easy or comforting. At some point you cross each others paths and lines, not sure to find the right paths, directions, words. And so the day goes by, again, under skies of old.