Each plane at night is a story of safe passage through the darkness, its persistent blinking a reassuring beacon in the cold and empty sky. But there don't seem to've been too many of 'em flying over us these past few days. Every time I'm out on the deck at night I look up at the moon and at whatever stars I might discern. No planes.

"They change their flight paths sometimes," Steve remarked today.

I hope that's all it is.