I sit here, listening to "We Didn't Start the Fire". It is nearly midnight outside. Seeds of frost are taking root on the grainy concrete and moonlit grass. The wind is almost silent, breathing softly like a new-born baby cradled in doting mother's arms.

Long Island Sound is a shiny lake of jet-black oil beyond my window, and the lights on the far shore seem like yellow candles' flame. Coincidentally, the brightest lights are only two in number. I'm a Jew, and this is Hanukah's second night. Two sprites of fire dance in the menorah downstairs.

I remember how the Japanese light candles to remember the dead, place them in ceremonial boats, and watch solemnly as they float down the river, beyond the horizon.

I wonder if there will be enough oil to light all those thousands of candles.

It may take a miracle.