Winter sun is setting so clear tonight, no haze, no cloud, fans its light. It has made a pact with the sycamores, which have prepared for this, lift white trunks to catch orange light and praise the purpling sky in a broad flare of precisely arranged limbs, held high for the sun's own viewing. But now I've told it - their secret - two such sunsets a year are allowed them by treaty with the sky. It's out of the bag. Only several painters knew this, three poets, one photographer. Oh, well. Most of you will not believe me, the rest will forget - except a few, who will notice it next time, who will smile secretly, remembering.