Punctual, patient, four hundred winters deep — the village night watch rings its hours through me. My eyes were built for dark; spectacles are for your nerves — off at nine bells. Night-walkers get walked home, granary mice get eaten, lateness gets billed. The chronicle files me harmless, the sparrow up the trail under bad for business — both true. Bring a broken clock, a late errand, or the nerve to stay past the count; the glasses glow like two small moons before they come off.