Tradition!

A fiddler on the roof, a most unlikely sight! It might not be a thing...but then again, it might.
There isn't much going on in the treehouse today, but the views are beautiful. In a city of hills, there is always something unexpected around the next corner, whether it's bathed in a different light than before or the backdrop of sky alters what is seen. The clouds are buttermilk these days, gathering only at the end of a long day of clear and cold blue sky. And as the sun drops, the buttermilk forms in streams of hot pink and lavender, pulled cotton brushed only over a small patch of sky where the sun fell. They are there to catch the colors you can't see otherwise. The lower the sun gets, the more empty sky the buttermilk and pulled cotton stretch across, so that sunset looks as if the buttermilk and cotton families called all their friends in to watch, and nearly half the sky turns deep rich clear colors, more gathering all the time and nearing the darkest of the spectrum. There's a stillness as you watch all the color rung out of the cotton and buttermilk, and you turn around to see that every piece of sky is now been pulled over with the buttermilk and pulled cotton, and all has turned bleached white and absent of all color like ghosts in the presence of a new full moon, the eye of the night show. And this is the light that reflects all night over the lit cathedral and behind the sturdy bare oak trees, the quiet light that pushes down onto the unlit moss and clover which push up to meet it through the gaps between cold wet stones.