An early morning mist hung over the fields of Roselawn. From his nest in
the branches of a tree, a bird chirruped dubiously, as though to assure
himself even against his better judgment that the rain was only a threat.
The woods which bordered the meadows were blurred into a foreboding,
formless black, like a fringe of mourning, and the distant hills stood
sentinels at the sepulchre of nature.