When it starts snowing, and the trees set in with evening shadows and glowing leaves, Susy makes her way back to the park bench, and to the car, and to her home, upstairs by the chimney with a cup of tea, a pencil, and paper. Nothing to be done. There’s no song to sing, when there’s nothing to be sung.

Light a candle, light a lamp, and step down. Step down. Write, and write, and write, and write. Write, and write, and write another.