Nine brittle peels sound down the vaulted slope of the sky and all is gray dawning.  Amid the scramble of postmen and children in silver minivan's and dilatory birds flocking back and forth like black clouds of static, or black sesame seeds ground into fine dust by a pestle,or pepper thrown by malicious hand into the careening winds, slow, silent forms wind their way through the early morning streets, single file, cracking and dragging their long black skirts through sidewalkless suburban lanes.  From a helicopter, they look like lidded balls of mercury rolling mercilessly toward some magnetic force -- turn of the century, four story, converted into apartments some time in the 1950's, converted into nothing in the 1990's.  Twelve of them gathered, standing in a rough triangle before the porch door.