Upstairs, it might have been people, speaking in a language we’d never had the time to learn, but we think it was television, playing the day in reverse, backwards flying birds putting the dawn back into its box, raindrops stitching themselves to clouds and the windblown trees, unblown by the great gales that surprised us that afternoon.  It was night, with the day a glowing backwards square, playing out in the apartment one floor above us.